


under your skin the moon is alive

by lester_sheehan



Category: Classical Greece and Rome History & Literature RPF
Genre: Fluff and Angst, M/M, Probably more angst
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2017-01-01
Updated: 2017-01-01
Packaged: 2018-09-14 01:51:52
Rating: Not Rated
Warnings: Major Character Death
Chapters: 5
Words: 30,302
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/9151993
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/lester_sheehan/pseuds/lester_sheehan
Summary: The colliding lives of Cicero and Atticus (from 79 - 32 BC) and the comfort they found within each other's arms.





	1. Chapter 1

**Author's Note:**

> i spent ages trying to ensure that this was as historically accurate as possible, so please forgive any small mistakes! this is probably best read with at least a vague sense of the background, but tbh it kinda stands on its own too. also, any letters with a reference (aka "book 1: 1.5") are taken from wikipedia's translation of the original source; the rest are my own creation.
> 
> and finally, happy early birthday to cicero on the 3rd :):):)

_Dwell on the beauty of life. Watch the stars, and see yourself running with them._

_\- Marcus Aurelius_

**32 BC**

He sat by the firelight, letters held in a bundle on his lap, staring into the dimly lit room. He was old and quite alone, blending into the shadows like smoke and dust: still as night, quiet as death. For a man who had always believed in kindness of spirit and gentleness of mind, he found that the strength in which it took to uphold such values drifted further away with each passing year, each compounding loss. Soon, he feared, it would be beyond his reach.

His fingers skimmed the edge of one letter. With a trembling sigh, Atticus closed his eyes and breathed in the memories and joy of his youth: the endless streams of conversation, the embraces, the advice, the visits… _him_. He thought of his friend—if that is the word to be used, for he felt now that even ‘lover’ was not quite right, but instead something more, something unreachable, was needed—and the times that they had shared. 

On this day, eleven fragile years ago, Cicero had been assassinated, defiled and left to rot for all to see. Atticus’ stomach twisted, as though a snake had wormed its way into his heart, and his mind tried to focus on something else— _anything_ else—but all that he could envision was Cicero’s laughter and his tears, his sorrow and his pride. The way that his lips would twinge when he found something amusing, and his eyes would express all the sarcastic wit that he dared not speak (and this, Atticus thought, was a rare occasion, for it was not very often that Cicero knew when to stay silent).

He opened his eyes once more, waited for them to adjust to the darkness. Between tender fingertips, he picked up the first letter and held it before him. The light of the fire flickered over the parchment, enriching Cicero’s words with colour and life, as though they were alive and burning as bright as the man who had written them. Atticus smiled at the familiar handwriting, felt as though he was visiting an old friend. And then he started to read.

***

**79 BC**

_Greetings!_

_As you are well aware, Terentia and I have finally settled down. It has been a rough few weeks, and I dare say that I believe her to be quite severe – although I am sure it is nothing that a good visit from a friend cannot fix. I hereby invite you to come dine with us, and please do bring Pomponia if you so desire. Be sure that your family means as much to me as my own. It has been too long since I saw your face, and your words, although lacking nothing, do not quite feel the same._

_I look forward to hearing from you, and furthermore, to seeing you arrive at my door._

_Farewell._

The journey to Cicero’s home had been pleasant. It was the middle of spring, and the scent of soft blossom and lavender drifted in through Atticus’ carriage window. The temperature was mild, warm yet not quite stifling, and a book lay balanced atop his knees. He’d travelled from Athens, and the journey had been long, but he had kept his spirits high with thoughts of discussion, debate, and food.

Pomponia sat next to him, chin resting in her palm, staring out at the passing scenery. “How much further is left to go?” she asked. “We have been travelling for so long.”

Atticus followed the direction of her gaze. “A few more hours, I believe.”

She breathed out a soft, tired sigh, and resumed her silent watch, fingers tapping delicately against the wood.

The time passed slowly, yet not distastefully, and soon they were drawing to a halt. Cicero’s home was modest, worthy of an upcoming lawyer, yet nothing as grand as Atticus’ own. The pink and green of spring made it appear quaint and beautiful, like something out of an old epic—Odysseus’ Ithaca, Athene’s grove—and the sunlight reflected off of the walls.

Atticus jumped down from the carriage, walking quickly to his sister’s door. She took his hand and stepped graciously onto the grass, causing her blonde curls to bounce on impact. As they walked up the path, the small collection of slaves that they had brought for the journey gathered their belongings, following behind with their arms full and their faces bright with chatter.

Cicero was already beginning to make his way towards them, motioning them inside. His hair was cropped and dark, his frame thin. He looked radiant and well—glowing, even—and yet there was also a nervousness to his manner that Atticus noted but did not voice.

Terentia was beside him, dressed simply and with little jewels. She did not need them, Atticus thought; there was a simplistic beauty to her features that existed without need for enhancement. The pair made a rather striking couple. Cicero’s bold, sweeping gestures and nervous mannerisms contrasted greatly to the quiet wit of Terentia, a woman of silent intelligence, with a sharp tongue and an eyebrow always raised in Cicero’s direction. She looked at the man she had married as though she did not quite believe what she had got herself into.

“Marcus!” Pomponia beamed, rushing towards him. “Look at how you’ve changed!” Her eyes flit to Terentia. “I hope marriage has done you both well.”

“It certainly has increased my productivity,” Terentia said, with only the slightest hint of humour, “what with Marcus’ constant pacing rattling the floorboards each night.”

Atticus raised his brow at his friend, and Cicero bowed his head compliantly. “At least work is getting done,” he said. “That is always the most important thing.”

“According to you,” Atticus said, and clasped his friend on the shoulder. Then: “It’s good to see you again. From your letters, I assume you have much to tell me.”

Cicero smiled and motioned in the direction of the gardens. “Shall we?” He turned to Terentia and Pomponia briefly. “I’m sure you two can find a way to entertain yourselves.”

Terentia gave an almost indiscernible nod. “We’ll see you at cena.” And then she indicated politely to Pomponia, and the two disappeared into the triclinium.

“I’m sure they will get along fine,” Atticus said.

“Perhaps,” Cicero said, grimacing, “if Terentia does not scare her away first.”

They had just reached the garden. Atticus sat down in a chair, leant back and looked out at the expanse of green. “Oh, Marcus. She seems perfectly pleasant to me.” His eyes crinkled in amusement. “And Pomponia can certainly give as good as she gets.”

Cicero took the seat opposite. “She is—pleasant, that is. Intelligent, rational, calm. But—” He cut himself off, looked away.

“But you are intimidated by her,” Atticus chuckled, enjoying the way a slight blush rose to Cicero’s cheeks, tarnishing his skin.

“I would not say that.”

“Of course you wouldn’t.”

Cicero conceded, smiling as though giving his friend the victory. He gave a small wave of his hand. “Enough of this. Did I tell you my most recent plans? I shall be travelling to Greece—perhaps I can even come back with you. I believe I shall be spending a great deal of time in both Athens and Rhodes. My—oratory is good, but not as great as it could be.”

“It would be my delight to have you travel with me.” Atticus watched as his friend’s brow furrowed. “Would this have anything to do with you antagonising Sulla?”

“That may have influenced my timing a little.”

“I told you it was not wise.”

“Wise? Perhaps not. But it worked, and that is what matters most now. My name is known. _I_ am known.” Cicero’s voice trailed off, as though his mind was working through a thousand different thoughts at once, all so far away and yet achingly, tantalisingly close. “I know that you do not particularly like politics, but—just think of what I may able to achieve now.”

“I am careful; you can be too daring for your own good. Perhaps neither one is truly better than the other,” Atticus said, and the pair settled into gentle conversation, accompanied by the trill of birds, and the flutter of butterflies’ wings.

***

**77 BC**

_Greetings!_

_As you may well know, my time in Greece is almost over, and shortly I shall be returning to Rome. I would like to invite you – as well as my brother and some others – to come visit me for a short while, and to see all of the things that I have learnt!_

_Do not hesitate to respond quickly, and please come as soon as you can._

_Farewell._

“Do you think that I can do it?”

The pair were sitting on the beach, the sand cool beneath their bodies. The sky overhead was dark, and the sea crashed and bellowed, waves tumbling onto the shore. Cicero did not look at Atticus as he said, “Do you truly think that I can make something of myself in these courts?”

Atticus glanced at his friend. His face was pale beneath the brittle moonlight, streaks of silver-gold falling onto his features and lighting up his eyes like cold fire. The past two years had been tough—early days, late nights, exercises in the morning and oratory practices in the afternoon—yet Cicero’s spirit had only been strengthened. He seemed to emit now a certain kind of determination, and so Atticus felt nothing but honesty when he replied: “I think that you will be bigger than all of us.”

“I’m not quite sure of that,” Cicero said, but something in his gaze told Atticus that he would certainly try to make it so.

The following day, Quintus arrived, and Cicero performed a speech in front of them all. His stutter had diminished, his frail nature seemingly a thing of the past. Against the rush of the ocean, with the morning sun beaming down onto their skin, they laughed and they joked and they talked of all that was to come. They sat together, unaware of just how much joy they would experience. Yet also, of the inevitable suffering that they would be forced to endure.

They revelled in this small breath of happiness, and swallowed up the moment whole.

***

**70 BC**

_Greetings!_

_I am afraid that this letter will be rather short. Although you have warned me of the dangers of accepting Sthenius’ request, I feel that I cannot sit back any longer and watch as governors such as Verres rule, not only their provinces with corruption and greed, but also the will of the Senate itself! And so, much like before, I have accepted the case, despite Hortensius and his men’s determination to stop me. They attack me viciously at every corner and I am at a loss. Please, come to see me as soon as you can._

_Farewell._

Atticus read the letter with a sigh on his lips, fingers clasped around the bridge of his nose. Marcus’ intentions were kind, if a little self-serving—this, he knew. And yet, part of him wished that his friend could give up the political sphere, the never-ending power plays. It was a dangerous game that he was playing, and one that Atticus feared would soon be lost. To be able to help Cicero achieve his fame, and to hear his name spoken for years to come, was all that he desired.

But there was a fine line between fortune and harm, and in the courts, all it took was a slight breeze to blow a man over the edge.

He ordered his belongings to be packed, and set off for Rome.

When he arrived, Tiro greeted him warmly at the door. “How is he?” Atticus asked.

Tiro grimaced, shrugged his shoulders. “He thinks that he can change the world.” He lowered his gaze to the floor. “It may not be my place to say but—I worry about him.”

“And rightly so,” Atticus said, turning into Cicero’s office. The man himself was sitting at his desk, surrounded by rolls of parchment and empty glasses, head resting on top of his arms. Asleep. “I’ve never seen him so quiet.”

Unsure of how to proceed, Tiro shuffled a little on the spot, then said, “I shall leave you with him.”

“Mm,” Atticus murmured, lips pursed. He ran a hand through his hair, then made his way over and shook his friend gently on the shoulder. Cicero stirred, but did not wake. He pushed him harder.

With a rather uncouth noise of surprise, Cicero jolted from his desk, almost falling from his chair. “What—what are you doing?” he said, eyebrows furrowed. Atticus looked at him. Cicero stared back. And then a light pink blush began to fall over his face. His eyes darted around the room, at the letters that had been knocked to the floor. “I see,” he said. “Well, this is rather embarrassing. I—wasn’t expecting you so soon.”

“You call, and I answer,” Atticus laughed. “Is that not how it has always been?”

Cicero huffed and raised himself up from his chair, straightening the crumpled folds of his toga, shifting it back into place. He side-stepped around Atticus and made his way over to the small table by the window, staring out absent-mindedly as he poured himself another drink. “Would you like some?” he said, already reaching for a second glass. “I’m afraid it’s only water.”

Atticus made a noise of agreement, and sat down in the chair that Cicero had left. It was still slightly warm. “So,” he began, “how is the case?”

With a slight wave of his hand, Cicero placed the glass down in front of Atticus. “It is the same as usual. Hortensius will not stop at anything to delay the trial. First, he tries to occupy the court with another case, then he tries to set up a false prosecutor. That man can talk for the entire world,” Cicero said, and Atticus could not help but notice the irony.

“But, if your letters have been true, then the judge has ruled in your favour each time?”

“Not without some incentive,” Cicero said, an edge of shame to his voice. He took a sip of water. “I’ve been talking to Pompey.”

“Pompey?” Atticus could hardly believe his ears. “Marcus, tell me you did not do anything stupid.”

Cicero pursed his lips, lifted his chin slightly in an action of defence. “I simply agreed to—if it ever came down to it, which it may very well not—support his request of a military command. I hear that his client, Gabinius, will put it to a vote when he eventually gets into office.” Before Atticus could respond, he said again, “It may come to nothing. He may not even need my help.”

“A special command? Does this not go against everything you believe in?”

Agitated now, Cicero said, “I do not pretend to like the man, nor to agree with him. His request for such power goes beyond all precedence, but—I believe that he is easily controlled. If I can just get him to _listen_ to me.”

Breathing in deeply, Atticus swirled the water around the edge of his glass. “I hope you know what you are doing, Marcus.”

“I haven’t failed myself yet.”

Atticus nodded. “In your letter, you said you were at a loss. When was this decision made?”

“A week ago.” He paused. “I needed to act quickly, faster than Hortensius. And that man, when he is not giving a speech against me, acts with such celerity that to blink would be to miss him.” Cicero leant his back against the wall, stared off at some distant, unreachable point. “If I am honest, I just wanted to see you again,” he said, and the pair settled into a comfortable silence.

Atticus could not sleep that night, countless thoughts twisting and turning and tumbling through his mind. He slipped out of bed, traversed quietly through the halls. The house was quiet, still. All sounds seemed to be eaten by the darkness. As he approached the garden, believing a breath of fresh air would do him good, he stopped short. Sitting on the chair he had only recently occupied, a large shawl wrapped tight around his shoulders, was Cicero. His eyes were tired, distant. His hair was ruffled.

“Marcus?” Atticus said, and Cicero jumped a little, looked his way. “What are you doing?”

“I could ask you the same thing,” Cicero said, the edge of his mouth curled up slightly. “You can sit down, you know.”

Atticus resumed his place, shuffling comfortably into the seat. “I know,” he said, crossing one leg over the other. “What is bothering you?” He looked out at the garden, at the way the shapes seemed to morph beneath the night sky. It was cold—he was realising this now, as the hairs on his arms bristled at the chill—and everything seemed subtly unreal, dreamlike, as though he was not really there at all.

Cicero took a while to respond. The words were soft: “I do not know. Perhaps—perhaps I wonder whether a new man like me can really stand a chance. Perhaps I—sometimes wonder whether I am good enough to do this.” He waved his hand dismissively. “These are nothing more than the thoughts of a man who cannot sleep. A man who chooses instead to pass his time alone, with nothing but the starlings for company—and even they have gone silent.” He was mocking himself now, and Atticus couldn’t help the tug that pulled at his heart.

“I am out here,” he said, “and you are not alone.”

Cicero looked at him then, with the most curious expression of quizzical confusion on his face, as though his mind was reeling with thoughts that baffled even him. He opened his mouth to speak. Closed it quickly.

Surveying the way that the trees seemed to whisper to one another, passing along secrets that man would never know, Cicero pulled the shawl tighter to his body. “Perhaps,” he said, and the word stirred something within Atticus—something that he would not be able to name for many years to come.

**68 BC**

_Greetings!_

_We are such intimate friends that more than almost anyone else you can appreciate the grief as well as the actual public and private loss that the death of my cousin Lucius is to me._

_…I am sure, therefore, that you will share my grief. For, in the first place, whatever affects me affects you; and in the second place, you have yourself lost in him a friend and connection of the highest character._

_…As to the frequency of my letters you have no ground for your complaint. The fact is, our good sister Pomponia never informed me of there being a courier ready to take a letter._

_…Farewell. (Book 1: 1.5)_

It had been a year since Cicero had won the office of aedile, two since his victory over Verres. They saw each other little, but wrote often—or, at least, as often as they could. The news of Lucius’ death struck Atticus hard. He had been kind, gentle. And now, like the soft drawing back of the tide, he was gone. 

Atticus travelled again to Cicero’s home. It was strangely quiet, the low murmur of citizens’ complaints gone. He supposed that Tiro had sent them all away, and then, that perhaps Cicero was doing worse than his letter suggested. As he stepped into the atrium, Atticus immediately noticed the tense air that clung to the household. He tried his best to shrug it off, to pretend that all was well.

But Cicero was always far better than him at perpetuating the image of serenity. He strolled into the room, toga flowing around his ankles, and smiled. Through the ceiling, the sky was sceptre-grey: clouds rolled in slowly, hanging over the city like lead. “Atticus,” Cicero said. “What a pleasure to see you here.” As he neared, he took Atticus’ hand within his own. “I assume you are well?”

“As well as expected,” Atticus said, eyeing his friend carefully. “And yourself?”

“It is sad, of course. But we live on.”

A small pause. “That is certainly a good philosophy to live by.”

Cicero smiled again, dropped Atticus’ hand. “Please, do come through. It has been too long. I have much to tell you—have I informed you about the business with Acutilius? It was all really rather dull—”

“Yes. I believe you mentioned it in your letter,” Atticus said.

Cicero nodded, as though forgetting something very important, then carried on: “Well, anyway, it is all sorted now. How are things with you? Is Pomponia well? I really do believe that Quintus has taken my advice on board.”

And the day continued like so. Cicero, rambling and deviating towards whichever topic he could think up, did not stop to even take a breath, and Atticus nodded and smiled and answered politely, all the while thinking about the way that Cicero’s voice was slightly too high and too sharp, and his hands wrung together tightly in his lap.

It was during cena that the rope holding him together finally snapped.

The meal had been awkward at best. Whatever force had been dragging Cicero along, keeping his spirits high and his mind moving, appeared to desert them all as soon as they reclined. He sluggishly picked at his plate, chewing on the food as though it were made of dirt. Terentia—to Atticus’ utmost respect—attempted to salvage the situation dearly. Every now and again she would inquire after an aspect of Atticus’ life, or nudge Cicero’s side to elicit a response.

But then, it seemed, ropes could be fused back together just as quickly.

At the end of the meal, Terentia excused herself, leaving with Tullia. She stood graciously from the table, shooting Atticus a look that he could only guess at, and left them both alone.

It was not long before they were back in Cicero’s office, drinking water from the finest glasses (Atticus did not fail to notice that Cicero had put the slightest drop of wine in his own). They conversed—and by this, it is meant that Cicero talked, and Atticus listened. It was not painful, nor boring, but Atticus could not look past the farce. He saw his friend laughing and felt no joy.

“—and besides, I had already told Quintus that it was utterly ridiculous, and yet he still thought it fit to berate me! And, I mean, after all—”

Atticus could not bear it any longer. “Marcus,” he said, voice already lost beneath the torrent of Cicero’s words.

“—is that not absurd? And then (to think that he had the audacity!) he said that I was going against my morals, and that I shall come to regret my decision, and I tell you now, Atticus—”

“Marcus.” The word was stronger this time, piercing through. Cicero stopped short, looked up from his drink. He remained like that for a moment, frozen in a snapshot of time, like a figure in a painting. A god, poised and dignified, waiting for a response. “Marcus, I think that—”

“I know,” Cicero said, and suddenly the life and vitality was gone from his voice, and he was merely a shell of the man that he had been occupying for the past seven hours. “I know. You are right.”

“I have not said anything yet.”

“You do not need to.” Cicero sighed, slumping down in his chair. He placed his drink on the table. “I am—” He paused, licked his lips, then tried again: “I am afraid I am not dealing very well with Lucius’ death.”

“He was a good man.”

“Mm,” Cicero murmured, staring at the ground. “That he was.” His eyes were glazed over, glistening in the firelight. Atticus thought that he would speak again, but then there was a knock at the door and the sound of a small voice calling out.

Cicero looked up, blinked away any inkling of grief. “Come in,” he said, and Tullia shuffled in quietly, hands behind her back. She was ten years old now, strong of character and tender in nature. Her hair collected in gentle waves, brushing against the soft material of her nightgown.

The sight of her erased any sadness left in Cicero’s mind. His face seemed to light up instantly, dimples visible in his cheeks. “My darling Tulliola,” he whispered, and she happily jumped atop his knee.

“I came to say goodnight,” she said, “but mother said that you may be sad.”

“Sad? Why, I am perfectly fine.”

“You do not seem perfectly fine,” she argued. “You smile, but you are not happy.”

Cicero dipped his head. “Very well. You are too intelligent to mislead.” He brushed a lock of hair away from her face. “But you can trust that I am happier now that you are here.”

“Then you will be sadder when I am gone?”

“Of course not, for I shall know that you are safely upstairs, and that I shall say hello to you again in the morning.”

This response seemed to be the correct one. Tullia smiled, leant forward, and kissed her father on the cheek. Hanging delicately from a chain around her neck, her bulla brushed against Cicero’s skin, and he chuckled at how the cool touch of metal made him wince.

He was still an ordinary man back then. The tendrils of fame had not quite wrapped around his heart, and his mind—even whilst coping with grief—was filled with ambition and hope and spirit. That is not to say that he lost these things along the way; rather, the world became too much, too embroiled within the poison of politics, and during these times something changed, and that poison seeped too deeply, and the man—the young, inspired lawyer from Arpinum—found himself with his body on the ground and his head on the Rostra.

But for now, his daughter was on his knee, staring at him with love in her eyes and a grin on her lips. Tullia’s small hand was held tightly within his own. And this was enough for them all. 

She pulled back, rising to stand, and only then did she truly acknowledge Atticus’ presence. She smiled politely, gave a small wave. Atticus nodded and said, “I hope you are well.”

She said, “I am very well, thank you.” And then she rushed towards him, and with all the friendliness of a child who had grown up with him by her side, Tullia whispered into his ear: “Make him happy even when I am gone.”

“I promise,” Atticus said. “I give you my word.”

And, twenty-three years later, he tried his hardest to keep it.  

***

**32 BC**

Atticus put the letters on the table beside him. His hands were shaking, eyes glassy. He tried to steady his breathing, as shallow and slow as it was, before blowing out the candlelight.

After extinguishing the fire, he stayed in his chair for the rest of the night, and was not quite sure when morning arrived. The windows were blocked out, no glint of the sun’s rays, nor call of the mockingbird, allowed to creep through and enter his heart. He did not need it. He did not _want_ it.

All he wanted now was to rest. To leave this broken, fragile life behind. But he had not yet fulfilled his debt.

And he would not depart without one final goodbye.


	2. Chapter 2

_But how could you live and have no story to tell?_

_\- Fyodor Dostoyevsky, White Nights_

**32 BC**

He was not sure if he slept. He was not sure what difference it made anymore. He was ill—that he knew. The physicians had made it perfectly clear: he would not survive long. But he would be damned if he would let himself succumb to a drawn-out sickness, to days spent lying in bed, being waited on by people he no longer knew.

And so no food passed his lips, no water quenched his thirst. Every few hours, one of his slaves would peer into the room, ask if he needed anything. The answer was always no. All he needed now was to continue reading, soaking up the letters and words that he once knew so well. The words that felt so familiar, and yet so far away, all at once. His life now existed only in the past.

There was nothing left.

***

**65 BC**

_Greetings!_

_I have to inform you that on the day of the election of L. Iulius Caesar and C. Marcius Figulus to the Consulship, I had an addition to my family in the shape of a baby boy._

_Why such a time without a letter from you? I have already written to you fully about my circumstances. At this present time I am considering whether to undertake the defence of my fellow candidate, Catiline._

_… I hope that if he is acquitted he will be more closely united with me in the conduct of our canvass._

_…_ _Be sure to be in Rome in January, as you have agreed to be._

_Farewell. (Book 1: 1.2)_

“Atticus!” Cicero’s face was one of complete shock, slowly morphing into one of the widest grins that Atticus had ever been witness to. It was July, only a short while after he had received the letter. The sun was protruding through the gaps in the trees, shining upon them both. It was hot and stuffy in Rome at this time of year, and Cicero’s forehead was laced with a delicate sheen, both of them sweltering in their unwieldy garments. “I was not expecting you until January.”

Atticus ran a hand through his hair. “You really believe me to be so cold, that I would not come to visit you all during such a time?” Cicero did not reply, staring at him silently beneath the cloudless sky. “Your family is my family, Marcus. And I should like to see the new addition.”

At the mention of his son, the smile returned to Cicero’s face. He hurried Atticus inside, calling out Terentia’s name. They sat together in the garden, the infant held on Terentia’s lap, and Atticus could not help the swell of pride that he felt. “He is beautiful,” Atticus said. “May I?” He motioned towards the younger Marcus.

And then there was the sound of running footsteps, softened against the trill of the summer’s day. Tullia had ventured outside now too, bouncing on her tip-toes. “He is amazing, isn’t he?” she exclaimed, gazing at them all with awe.

“Tullia, dear, pass your brother over to Atticus, will you?” Terentia said, and Tullia gathered Marcus Jr. into her arms as though he would float away.

Atticus took him gently, held him to his chest. The child grabbed his finger, and Atticus’ lips parted in wonder. “One day,” he said, “I will tell you stories of your father.” He looked up, eyes meeting Cicero’s. “He will be so proud.”

“I can only hope that you are correct,” Cicero said, before quickly moving his eyes away. He drew Tullia close to him, whispered something in her ear. She giggled and hit him lightly on the arm.

Terentia said, “Is your father winding you up again?” She rolled her eyes. “The gods know he is certainly capable of it.”

Tullia pressed her lips together tight, as though trapping a secret within herself. “Can I hold Marcus again?” she said.

The day went on like so. The child, it seemed, was a light amongst the dim strain of political life. He symbolised hope for them all. And what better time for that hope to arrive, than one year before the consular elections? Cicero and his brother were already canvassing, eagerly attracting votes. The pair of them together, Atticus thought, was truly a match for anybody: Quintus, with his charm and military strength; Marcus, with his quick wit and gentle nature. They balanced each other out perfectly.

He did not doubt Cicero’s ability to win Rome over for a single moment. 

That evening, Atticus invited Cicero for a stroll along the riverbank. It was still warm, but the cool night air served as a relief from the heat. They walked side by side, talking of politics and family and friendship, of the way that the bugs flew across the water with all the speed of Achilles, and the moon’s reflection lit up the entire path. They sat down in an open clearing and stared out at the rippling surface.

“Do you remember when we were children?” Atticus smiled. “You would always write to me in Greek, so excited about whatever you were learning.” He paused and then, suppressing a laugh: “Do you remember your poetry?”

“I was fourteen,” Cicero said. “And besides, I do not recall yours being much better.”

“That is true. But _I_ did not proclaim it to be so.” Atticus watched as a mouse hurried through the grass, dashing amongst the shadows. “Will you really back Catilina?”

“I do not know,” Cicero sighed. “I see no harm in it. Whether he is guilty or not, I have no opinion—”

“Marcus Tullius Cicero, without an opinion?” Atticus shook his head gently. “What is the world coming to?”

“—no definite one, anyway,” Cicero continued, ignoring his friend’s playful taunts.

“Extortion charges in Africa? Corrupt governorship? I think you and I both know that he is as guilty as Verres was.”

Cicero pursed his lips. “I suppose you are correct,” he said. “I shall do without him.”

“Mm,” Atticus mumbled, and then he reached into the satchel at his side and pulled out two figs. He threw one at Cicero—who only just caught it—before biting into his own. “I think I shall return to Rome now.”

In an effort to supress his excitement, Cicero said, “So soon? You will not wait until January?”

Atticus stared into the distance, twisted the fig in his hand. “I will not wait until January.”

***

**64 BC**

The door to Cicero’s study swung open. “Marcus, what have you done?”

Cicero looked up from his desk. Atticus was standing in the doorway, one hand wrapped around the frame. His face was full of worry, forehead etched with deep, scathing lines. “I did what I had to do,” Cicero said, face impassive. “You would have done the same.”

“No, Marcus,” Atticus said. He edged closer to Cicero’s desk, pushing the door shut behind him. “I would not.” Cicero put his pen down. “Not only have you angered Catilina, but you thought it wise to bring Caesar and Crassus into this too?”

“If I recall, I never once mentioned Caesar—”

“And that is how they will see it?”

Leaning back in his chair, Cicero levelled his gaze with Atticus. “All three of them—and who knows whoever else—are trying to prevent me from becoming consul. They think that they are better than me. That because I am a new man I cannot possibly hold such a title.”

“Is it worth it, Marcus? Does the consulship truly mean this much to you?”

Cicero breathed in, closing his eyes. “It is not just the consulship. It is the principle of it all. They think that they can—that they can get away with anything.” He rubbed a tired hand down his face. “You know what Catilina is like; you convinced me yourself not to defend him in court. And now, you tell me to leave it? To let him become consul? To let them ruin me?”

Atticus dropped down onto the table by the window, leaning forward as though trying to will some sense into Cicero’s mind. “You will ruin _yourself_ if you continue making enemies.”

“The senate is with me. Why do I need the backing of a few corrupt men? Why do I need—?”

“Do not get ahead of yourself, Marcus. The senate changes as easily as the weather. They may support a man one day and drop him the next.”

Cicero did not argue this time. Instead, he pushed himself out of his seat and moved to stand in front of his desk. The autumn wind rattled outside, howling against the window, and suddenly the space between them felt too large, too empty. “I will be consul next year,” he said, “and then this will all be over.”

***

**63 BC**

Cicero sat at his desk, staring blankly at the wall opposite. From the rest of the house, he could hear the usual murmur of everyday life: slaves working, Marcus’ childish babbling, Tullia’s laughter and tender words ringing through the halls. It was July, and the elections were quickly approaching. With each passing day, Cicero’s nerves increased, and he soon began to wish that he had never been appointed consul at all, that this burden was not his to bear.

He sat like that for many hours, barely moving. He wanted Atticus to come. Atticus, with his sense and his reason. Atticus, with his logic and rationality. He wanted his friend to tell him that this was all a silly fantasy, that Catilina would not dare to make an attempt on his life. He wanted the comfort, the familiarity, of Atticus’ voice, and he wanted to know that should he be killed, his family would be okay. Safe in the hands of his most trusted person.

But Atticus did not come until the next day.

The house was quiet when he arrived. Tiro calmly led him into the atrium, face somewhat apologetic. Atticus studied him for a short while then said, “Is everything all right?”

Tiro wrung his hands in front of his stomach. “I am afraid that everybody is rather tense today,” he said. “I am sure you will hear the news soon—if you do not already know.”

“Know? Know what?”

Lowering his gaze, Tiro said, “I am sure he will prefer to tell you himself.”

The secrecy was beginning to get to Atticus. He had been busy for the past few days, and had heard surprisingly little from Cicero. They were used to not speaking for days at a time, waiting for letters to arrive. But now that they were so close, it felt different. Atticus felt a longing that he could not describe, as though the very thing that he wanted was just out of his grasp. Almost within his reach, yet drifting further away each time he tried to secure it. He was not sure he could even describe himself what this thing was; all he knew was that he found himself thinking of it in every spare moment, every gap of silence. It had become as natural as breathing.

They reached Cicero’s study. “He is in there,” Tiro said. And then under his breath: “He has been in there all day.”

Atticus nodded his thanks and opened the door. Cicero was at his desk, as predicted. At the intrusion, he only lifted his eyes briefly, before lowering them back to the papers spread before him. “You are here,” he said. “I trust you have already heard?”

Atticus paced the room. “Everyone seems too afraid to tell me anything. What on earth is going on, Marcus?”

“You were right,” he said. “I have made enemies beyond my capabilities. Catilina has me backed into a corner.” He rolled his eyes, either at himself or at his new-found opponent. “I can no longer tell the difference between mere rumour, designed to unnerve me, and the true extent that this man will go to.”

“What have you heard?” Atticus said.

“An assassination,” Cicero said, and then he laughed bitterly. “Supposedly on my life.” A wry smile and then: “They are trying to frighten me.”

Looking at his friend, pale and wan despite the brightness outdoors, Atticus said: “And it seems that they have achieved.”

Cicero scraped his chair back, irritated. “Of course they have achieved!” And then he pinched the bridge of his nose in an effort to calm himself. “Would you really put it past him? You know of his crimes. Whether they are true or not, he has surely done _something_ to deserve such a reputation.”

Atticus did not reply, and so Cicero continued: “Quintus has advised wearing a breastplate beneath my toga. A _breastplate_ , Pomponius. I shall be a mockery.”

“And Terentia? What does she think?”

“Oh, I suspect she wants nothing to do with me right now.” Cicero’s face fell. “I had made her so proud, becoming consul. You should have seen the smile she gave me. And now I have tarnished even that.”

“She will get over it,” Atticus said. “She would want you safe.” He took a few steps closer, took Cicero’s hand in his own and remained silent until their eyes finally met. “We all do.”

Cicero pulled his hand away slowly, then flung it back up into the air. “Safe,” he repeated, “at the expense of my—of _our_ —dignity?”

When Atticus did not respond, all of the anger in Cicero seemed to fizzle away, and he was left standing, deflated, refusing to meet his friend’s eyes.

“Just wear the breastplate,” Atticus said, as though it was the simplest thing in the world.

***

The elections came and went. They had passed, unsurprisingly, with a mixture of teasing and spite—the breastplate had only made Cicero sweat more, and Catilina, Caesar, and all of the rest had seemingly revelled in his discomfort—but there was one thing that came as a pleasant addition. The armour and terse nature of the day, they supposed, had only increased the public’s distrust in Catilina, and he had failed yet again to be elected consul.

Cicero was hiding in his tent, struggling to remove the breastplate that seemed to be slowly depriving him of any air, when Atticus entered. He looked up, spread his hands at his side. “Please,” he said, teeth grit. “Help me remove this godforsaken thing.”

Atticus did as he was asked, fingers moving swiftly. When the armour was off, he threw it to the side, barely sparing it a passing glance. And when he looked up again, realising exactly how close him and Cicero were, for one small moment, he was sure that the erratic beat of his heart would give him away.

He gave a small cough and stepped back. “Catilina is bankrupt. There is little more he can do.”

Cicero did not look so assured. “Bankrupt, isolated, and fighting a losing battle? I think he is more of a threat now than ever before.”

Atticus moved to sit down, crossing his legs and staring at the way that Cicero paced back and forth, hands waving as he spoke. He was ranting and rambling and the words did not cease to flow. He was so caught up in Cicero’s movements—his gestures, his expressions, the slight curve of his lips—that he jumped slightly at his friend’s vexed, “Are you listening?”

Arching his eyebrows, Atticus said, “Of course.” Then he smiled, said teasingly, “It is just rather hard to get a word in.”

Cicero’s face flushed scarlet. “Sorry,” he said, drawing to a halt. “I—I know that I am being pedantic. I am just—” He cut himself off, collapsed back down into his seat. “I am at a loss.”

“We have not failed yet,” Atticus said, and for one glorious moment, as Cicero stared at the calm composure of his friend, he felt that they may never fail again.

***

It was October. The leaves had turned to gold and the air had gained a solemn chill. Catilina had been forgotten, a threat long passed, blown away into anonymity. Cicero and his family were joined by Atticus, mindlessly talking about anything at all, revelling in the small moments of peace that they were given.

Tullia was quietly chatting to Atticus when Tiro came rushing in, face a mixture of worry and confusion. “There is someone here to talk to you,” he said, eyes meeting Cicero’s. Then, a quick: “In private.”

Cicero’s eyebrows shot up. He lazily shifted his gaze to Terentia. “Do you know anything of this?”

“Marcus, if this was something that I had arranged, why would they ask to speak with you alone?” She rolled her eyes at his question, but the usual humour was lacking. She gave a strained smile. “Well, you best not keep them waiting.”

Cicero was gone for just under an hour. Atticus and Terentia fought to keep the conversation flowing, allowing Tullia to take the reins. She spoke of books and education, of her brother and her father, of all her hopes and dreams and ideas and wishes, of the husband that she would soon be marrying.

And then Cicero returned, face drained of all colour. Tullia stopped talking, a small frown beginning to appear. He instantly forged a smile. “How pointless!” he exclaimed, glancing around the room with exasperation. “A merchant—at this time! Apparently he had travelled so far to discuss business with me that he could not bear to wait another day.” His voice dropped to a whisper—Tullia giggled, rolling her eyes at her father’s dramatics—as he said, “I suppose he thinks that we are owls.”

The sky had darkened dramatically, black stretching as far as the eye could see. Stars were scattered here and there, like fireflies in the night. Cicero did not mention the visitor again until the children were tucked into bed, sleeping soundly and dreaming of autumn days.

As soon as Terentia returned, he pressed a hand to his forehead and exhaled, as though all of the worry he had been holding in for the past two hours could be restrained no more. When he withdrew his hand to lock it tightly within the other, he looked sick to his stomach, and Atticus’ own gut twisted at the sight.

“What is it?” Terentia hissed. “What has happened?” When Cicero didn’t respond, she stepped forward, grasping his shoulders. She searched his eyes expectantly. “Marcus, you are scaring me.”

“He has not given up,” he whispered. And then, pulling away, voice rising: “He still cannot leave me be.”

Terentia crossed her arms, bit her bottom lip. “Catilina has planned something else?”

“Surely not,” Atticus said. “He has been gone for so long. What more can he possibly hope to achieve?”

“I have letters,” Cicero said, pointing towards the direction of his study, “that talk of a conspiracy against the senate. By the gods, he—he wants Rome itself.”

Voice stern, measured, Terentia said, “He may be a snake, but one man alone cannot overthrow the entire system.”

“Alone? Oh, he is not alone.” Cicero fought hard to keep his voice down. “He has gathered quite the following. He has—he has supporters in Etruria. He—”

Atticus said, “And what will you do?”

Cicero glanced helplessly towards the window, through the blackness to the centre of Rome. “I will go to the senate,” he said. “I will face them all.”

“Surely the letters shall be enough evidence. They are incriminating. They—”

“They are anonymous,” Cicero finished, and could almost _feel_ the way that everybody in the room emptied out, the spirit seeping from them all like water through cloth.

***

The next day passed as well as any of them could have hoped: the senate, though wary, approved an SCU, and Cicero gained the backing of those that held the most influence. It was only when he was walking home, alone except for Atticus, that things began to take an unexpected turn. Terentia had insisted that it was unsafe, that they should travel together. But Cicero, stubborn and tenacious as always, had refused, maintaining that he needed to clear his head and breathe easy for a while.

As if that would ever have been possible.

Atticus was discussing where to take things next, what move to make, when—seemingly from thin air—Catilina appeared, blocking their way ahead. He was relaxed, hands loose at his sides, as though about to partake in nothing more than casual conversation. He smiled broadly and said, “Marcus! What a surprise to see you here.”

Atticus felt Cicero freeze beside him. He said, “Lucius, I have no quarrel with you. Let us pass.”

Catilina’s smile did not fade, like a predator who knew that its prey had been caught. “Titus Pomponius Atticus,” he said, in the same polite tone. “If that is the case, then surely you see no harm in talking?”

Atticus did not respond, sighing as though dealing with a temperamental child. Catilina stalked closer, eyes dancing beneath the golden light of midday. Despite the sun’s presence, the temperature was bitter, and his breath could be seen in the cool air. “So,” he laughed, “you denied my request to come home with you.”

Cicero’s back was now against the wall, chin tilted in an act of defiance. Catilina’s face was mere inches from his own, and Atticus watched as Catilina played the only card he had left. Cicero said, “Why, Catilina, you make me sound so heartless.”

Catilina paused, a look of appreciation spreading across his face. “Why?” he said. And then when Cicero stayed silent, he added: “Why wouldn’t you accept?”

“Of course,” Cicero deadpanned, “because nothing is more inviting than the thought of entertaining a murderer in my own home.”

Shrugging, Catilina said, “I would not be an awful guest.” He smirked, leaning so close that Cicero could feel Catilina’s breath on his face. “Do you not think it is time to end this?”

Cicero shifted uncomfortably, face burning. “What’s the matter?” Catilina said. “Usually you are so quick to speak.”

“You know what is the matter,” Cicero said, but then Catilina pulled away slowly, a picture of innocence. He shrugged his shoulders, smiling at the way Cicero’s eyes could not quite meet his own.

“Think it over,” Catilina said. And then he was gone.

Atticus was at Cicero’s side in an instant, fussing unnecessarily. Cicero pushed him away, albeit gently, before straightening his toga. His breathing had only just returned to normal, face still flushed. “I’m fine,” he insisted.

“Whatever was he playing at?” Atticus said, eyes drifting to the place where Catilina once stood. “Why would he think that such a tactic would work?”

He did not say what they were both thinking: that, in fact, it appeared to have worked exactly as Catilina had wanted it to. Cicero was shaken, but it was not entirely due to fear. Atticus allowed himself to wonder at his reaction for one single moment, before insisting that they both head home.

Neither one mentioned the incident to the others.

That night, they were sitting in Cicero’s study, bouncing ideas back and forth. The house was silent, the room still. The glow of the fire and the light of the candles gave the space a golden glint, shadows dancing across their faces like ghosts. They had just discussed the possibility of leaving Rome after Cicero’s consulship—to which Cicero had responded with a rather indignant refusal—when Atticus said, “Was it only fear that you felt today?”

Cicero paused, eyes narrowing. “What?”

For the first time in his life, Atticus appeared nervous. “When Catilina was messing with you. Was it—only fear?”

He received a blank stare. “Titus, I don’t—”

Atticus laughed gently, waved the thought away. “Do not worry,” he said. “I do not know what I mean myself.”

Cicero nodded, eyeing his friend cautiously, before brushing the incident aside just as fast. “Anyway, as you had said—” he began, and Atticus willingly let the conversation shift away from his question. 

He did not bring it up again.

***

As it turned out, that was not the last of Catilina. The conspiracy continued. Another assassination attempt took place. Speeches were made, Catilina witness to them all. But the most chilling thing of all perhaps, was the man’s request to put Cicero’s “groundless” charges to a vote— the constant protesting of his innocence, despite everything that had happened.

Looking back, Atticus sometimes wondered whether the conspiracy had been real at all. He could not deny that, after the vote was denied, Catilina turned to violence, but a small part of him questioned the moment that decision had been made. Perhaps the man had been truthful. Perhaps Cicero’s criminalising of him had _pushed_ him to it. But that is not to say that Cicero was to blame: he could not have known. Perhaps there were larger forces controlling the tides, out of sight. Men with their own desires and their own wants, manipulating those below.

And perhaps they would never know, for at the end of November, when frost coated the ground and trees were stark, the conspirators were intercepted, caught red-handed on the Mulvian Bridge; the cover of night had not been enough to protect them.

The senate meeting that followed had been brutal. When Cicero returned, his hands were shaking, eyes darting about nervously, as though expecting Jupiter himself to appear from the sky and strike him down. Atticus watched warily from his seat as Cicero paced. He still had not said a word, and the silence was growing painful.

“The conspirators—” Atticus began.

“Dead.” There was a pause, where neither of them seemed to move. “Well—I mean, not yet. Caesar and Crassus have agreed to hold them until morning.” At Atticus’ disbelieving expression, he said, “To let them escape would be to admit guilt. They will still be there tomorrow.”

Atticus nodded, gravely. “And you sanctioned it?”

“You think I should have let them live?”

“I do not know,” Atticus said, and Cicero exhaled as though he had been struck.

His voice came out smaller this time, almost fearful as he said, “Neither do I.”

Atticus stood, and before Cicero could protest, he reached forward and drew him into his chest, allowing Cicero to rest his head upon his shoulder. Cicero’s entire being seemed to reject the invitation at first, but then he dissolved into the embrace, arms dropping to his sides. “I am afraid that I have made a mistake,” he whispered.

“There is no way to know,” Atticus said, and Cicero closed his eyes. “But you have tried to be virtuous, and perhaps that is enough.”

They could only hope that his words were true.

***

Cicero’s consulship ended with a cloud hanging over the city, whispers on the lips of the people. The senators had applauded him, hailing him the Father of the Republic, and despite the niggling feeling in his chest, Cicero accepted the title with pride. But not everybody felt the same way, and there was a tension in the air that was almost palpable. At Cicero’s closing speech, the incoming tribune, Nepos, prevented him from speaking; Crassus, on the other hand, praised him to the skies.

In January, Catilina was defeated in Pistoria, still fighting amongst his people until the bitter end. Rumour had said that he died bravely, not once giving in to cowardice or fear. The news did not come as a surprise to anyone.

Atticus watched as Cicero’s ego grew, almost forgetting entirely the guilt and shame that he had once felt at the conspirators’ deaths. In one particular letter to Pompey, he had lauded his actions as both courageous and wise. Whether he truly believed that, or could not bear to tell himself differently, Atticus did not know. But what he _was_ aware of was the danger lurking, the ropes that threatened to snap.

Pompey was unamused, returning a private citizen to a Rome that hailed Cicero’s name; Caesar had threatened the senate with Rabirius’ trial, condemning the abuse of their power and rule.

But the year was over, and the drama had passed for now. Perhaps, he thought, they could enjoy a sweet interval of peace—just a moment, before the next problem came their way.

***

**61 BC**

_Greetings!_

_As you are aware, a lot has happened these past few months. I know that my letters have been lengthy, but there is just too much to share when you are not here with me. My consulship, as you know, was truly a remarkable time, and both Pompey and Crassus appear to have realised the extent of which I protected the state. The ordeal with Clodius has passed, and people are beginning to find new rumours to entertain themselves with, but I am afraid that it will not be forgotten so easily._

_I look forward to seeing you soon, and think of you often._

_Farewell._

August: hot days and sleepless nights, sweltering sunlight and a humid breeze. It was a time of bugs and laughter and joy and friends. A time when everything came to life and the warm, gentle haze lay over the land like a welcomed embrace.

Cicero had decided to travel to Epirus, taking his small family with him. There was not a single soul that was not excited at the prospect of seeing Atticus once more. It had felt like a lifetime had passed—an entire soul blinking in and then out of view—since his kindly face and easy manner had been in their presence.

Atticus was equally awaiting their visit. He remained at home, pacing the rooms one minute, fixing an ornament or cushion the next. It was not often that his friend left Rome, and he always felt a little nervous at the thought.

A slave entered the room. “They have arrived,” he said, and Atticus’ anxious expression turned into one of relief. The waiting, he decided, was always worse than the event itself.

“Titus!” Cicero grinned, and Atticus returned the gesture. Cicero looked happier than he had done in a long time. Although the stress of Clodius’ trial had bothered him greatly, it had not been enough to quell his growing ego, and his face was fresh, eyes bright, his entire being radiating confidence and surety. “It has been too long.”

“My friend, every time we are separated is a time too long for me to bear,” Atticus said.

Tullia stepped forward. Her hair was pinned back, loose strands falling gently around her face. She was seventeen now, as tall and beautiful as Diana herself. Oh, how Cicero had sulked when she had married Frugi. The man was trustworthy, a great friend and good man, and Cicero did not doubt that he would treat his daughter well; but to lose her resounding laughter, the way that she laughed at his jokes and kissed his cheek, would, he said, be the death of him.

It was not usual for a wife to leave her husband like so, but Frugi had always been the understanding sort, and so when Tullia put forward the idea of a family holiday, he had excitedly ushered her onwards. When her eyes met Atticus’, he saw all the excitement of the young girl within them still. “Hello,” she said, and he smiled.

“Hello, Tullia.” And then they both laughed, and Tullia rose on her toes to press a lingering kiss to Atticus’ cheek, much like she had always done with her own father. “You have not grown too much taller, I am glad to see.” She hit his arm gently for that.

Terentia came in next, Marcus clinging to her arm. Atticus’ eyes widened, and he dropped to his knees. “This one, on the other hand, has shot upwards as though reaching for the moon.”

Marcus giggled, but being only four years old, he was not quite as comfortable as his sister. He shifted closer to Terentia’s leg, and she gazed apologetically at Atticus. “He will grow more used to you with time,” she said.

“Ah, of course. It is to be expected. I have been away for much of his life,” Atticus said. “But you, Terentia—you treat me so coldly. Where is the excitement? Where is the love?” He touched his heart in mock offence.

Terentia regarded him with an air of amusement. “Do not push it, Titus. You know full well that you are like family to me.” He bowed his head, and a rare laugh escaped her lips.

“You must show me your Amaltheium,” Cicero said. “You know that I have been dying to see it since well before May. The descriptions in your letters have been enough to sustain me until now, but whilst your words are certainly beautiful, I am sure the sight will be,” he paused, considered, and then continued, “the greatest thing I have ever seen.”

“I fear that you overestimate me,” Atticus chucked. “But, come.” He glanced back at Terentia and the children. “Please, all of you.”

He led them to the Amaltheium, where the sun lit up the marble like gold, or the glint of a warrior’s shield, and the gentle whisper of the ocean carried on the wind. There was a study that opened out into a garden filled with a large, rushing fountain and trees bearing summer fruits. A statue of Amaltheia (in the form of a nymph) stood tall and proud, alive in the light of day. There was a goat by her side, and the soft murmur of the breeze gave the impression that she was speaking to them, sharing wisdom from a past long gone.

“You have outdone yourself this time, my dear friend,” Cicero called out, wandering amongst the vegetation. He stopped to admire the statue, eyes burning with admiration. “If I dare say so—you have surpassed all attempts of my own to create such exquisiteness.”

Atticus said, “You may keep to your politics; I shall conquer the world with art, not rhetoric.”

“I believe you will,” Cicero smiled, and then he pressed a hand to the marble and ran his fingers along the smooth, carved stone.

They spent the next day by the ocean, watching the drawing back of the tide, and paddling in the shallow waves. The afternoon was hot, and Terentia sat with a parasol covering her head, and a cup of water in her hand. Tullia had taken Marcus down to the water’s edge, splashing his limbs lightly, and finding joy in his innocent blend of delight and surprise.

Atticus and Cicero were sitting beside Terentia, finding it enough to simply relax in the sea air. It was Cicero who eventually broke the silence. He informed Atticus of all that had gone on at Rome, the laborious details of everything that he could not fit within his letters.

“Let me guess: he is telling you about the argument with Clodius again,” Terentia said, a smirk playing on her lips. “He does like to tell that story. Though, perhaps, it is not quite as dramatic as he likes to make out.”

“Oh, it is precisely that dramatic,” Cicero said, shaking his head with amusement. “If I am honest, I surprised even myself with the speed of my wit that day.”

“Careful, Marcus. Your head will soon reach Jupiter’s home.”

Atticus smiled, patted his friend on the arm. “She has you there,” he said, and Cicero rolled his eyes, ignoring the pair of them as they joked at his expense.

“You do not appreciate me enough,” he said, with a flick of his wrist. “Whatever would you all do without me?”

Now it was Terentia’s turn to roll her eyes. She took a sip of her drink and said, “Enjoy the pleasure of silence every now and again.”

Atticus’ laughter travelled all the way to the children by the shore. 

It was a day of tranquillity—one long deserved. They had lived amongst so much fear and turmoil and desperation, that to listen to the gulls was a gift sent from the gods themselves, and the sand beneath their fingers felt like stardust. As the afternoon descended into evening, the stretch of gold fizzled into transparency, a sheet of glass reaching towards the blue.

Terentia, Tullia and Marcus sought refuge indoors, leaving Cicero and Atticus to their talk. A wisp of white began to gather above the waves, and the sunset was a delicate mixture of peaches and yellows, so pale that the night sky seemed to be made of ice. The sand reflected the heavens like a mirror, and the entire beach appeared godly and divine.

“I have been thinking,” Atticus begun, and Cicero could see the way that his fingers dug deeper into the sand. “You—talk so much of Clodius’ little deception, Marcus.” He looked at his friend, a slight smile pulling at the corner of his mouth; Cicero, however, showed no hint of hilarity. “Some may go as far as to say that you appear almost—fascinated by his antics.”

Cicero did not move, frozen at Atticus’ words, a picture of indifference; but his eyes, Atticus found, always gave him away: he appeared to jolt, as though the thought had never crossed his mind before. “Fascinated _?_ Why, Titus, what an odd choice of expression.” He stopped, and Atticus thought that he had disregarded the notion entirely, but then he said, “ _Fascinated_ , really? The man is no more than an impish, incompetent child. He—he interrupts a religious festival, has no regard for the state, for virtue. He wears a dress and fine jewellery, curls blowing in the breeze, voice high and soft and—and it is ridiculous to even consider. No man should adopt such an impious, disreputable disguise.”

This time, when he stopped, he seemed to be slightly out of breath, staring at the thin slice of silver protruding from behind a cloud. “You’re right,” Atticus said. “You appear totally unbothered by him.”

Cicero tilted his head back, and then laughed gently. “Perhaps I am a little intrigued by his—oddness.” The air was still, and the darkening sky had now reached the irreversible point wherein blackness consumes all specks of blue.

“You ruined his alibi,” Atticus said.

“I did.”

“The man probably hates you.”

“He does,” Cicero said, and laughed once more. “I guess I am used to that by now.”

Atticus said, “I suppose there is little to be done. Besides, it was _him_ who brought your name into it all.”

“Do you think that he was right to do so?”

“Hm?”

“Do you think that I overstepped senatorial authority?”

“Marcus, it is in the past—”

Cicero’s voice was distant as he said, “That is not a denial.”

Atticus made to stand. “Come, we do not need to discuss this. You did what you had to do.”

“What I had to do,” Cicero repeated, lowering his gaze to his interlocked hands. He shook his head. “You are right. Of course, you are right.” He smiled and pushed himself to his feet. “I had no choice,” he said again, and as they walked back to the house, Atticus watched his friend, and felt that his smile was too wide, his voice too loud; the death on his hands would haunt him, Atticus thought, for the rest of his life.

***

The next few days passed in a timeless blur of sand and sea and mirth. One night, as Atticus lay resting in bed, a sudden idea popped into his mind. It was silly, that he knew. Ridiculous. Inappropriate. Ludicrous and bizarre—and yet, the thought would not leave him be.

He slipped out from under his sheet, got dressed, grabbed a candle, and crept down the corridor to the room where Cicero slept. He knocked gently on the door, knuckles barely touching wood. “Marcus,” he whispered, and there was no response.

He shuffled on his feet. “Marcus,” he hissed. A low mumble came from within. He grabbed the handle (Terentia had chosen to sleep with the children that night, upon Marcus Jr’s insistence), and pushed the door open.

Cicero shot upright in his bed, hand moving to shield his eyes from the candlelight. “By the gods, Titus, what are—?”

“Shh,” Atticus laughed. “Don’t wake the others.”

Cicero frowned, looking rather petulant in his night clothes, hair ruffled in complete disarray. “This is—”

“I know.”

“You are—?”

“Yes.”

Cicero stared blankly at him. “For the love of all that is good, Titus, do let me speak.” He rubbed at his eyes, more confused than irritated, sleep not yet quelled from his mind. His eyes dropped to Atticus’ attire. “It is the middle of the night. Where are you going?”

“ _We_ are going out,” Atticus said, and Cicero’s expression did not change. “There is a temple nearby. We shall visit it.”

“We shall—visit a temple?”

“Yes.”

“In the dark?”

“Yes.”

“Are you drunk?”

“No.”

“Alone?”

Atticus hesitated. “Yes.”

There was a brief pause, and then: “Very well. Fetch my stuff.”

They fled into the night like thieves, Atticus grinning widely and bustling Cicero along. The lawyer stumbled over his own two feet and occasionally gave a hissed, “Perhaps we should go back,” but Atticus simply prodded him onwards, until the familiar columns and etched stone came into view.

“Titus, this is thoroughly irresponsible. We are no longer children. I cannot believe you have coerced me into doing this,” Cicero said, awkwardly following up the steps.

“Oh, do be silent, Marcus,” Atticus said. “You know perfectly well that nobody can coerce _you_ into anything.”

Cicero did not respond, but almost lost his footing in the darkness, and was forced to grip onto Atticus’ arm for support. “I cannot see,” he complained.

“We are here now. Sit down.” Atticus yanked Cicero to the floor beside him, ignoring his sound of protest. “Look,” he said, and pointed towards the space between two towering columns. The entire land was visible from this point (and so it should be, Cicero said, after the hill that they had climbed), from the ocean to the wooded groves, where nymphs were said to haunt the night and the whispers of the gods could be heard.

It was beautiful, and for a moment the pair were silent. Cicero looked out, eyes unfocused, and listened to the distant murmuring of waves upon the rocks. Atticus leant back on his arm and gazed up at his friend. Moonlight shone down upon Cicero’s features; half of his face was cast in darkness, the other lit up like the glimmer of bronze, like one of Apollo’s arrows blazing through the sky. He was ice and warmth and silver and gold. He was everything that the gods had dared to make.

And he was so achingly, painstakingly human.

“Marcus,” Atticus said.

Cicero did not avert his eyes. “Mm,” he mumbled.

Softly: “Look at me. Please.”

Tilting his head slightly, Cicero met Atticus’ gaze. His eyes were tired, but there was a spark of curiosity, an eager inquiry, within them that made Atticus’ breath hitch in his throat.

Without thinking, Atticus placed a gentle hand on Cicero’s cheek, leaning forward until their lips were barely a thumbnail apart. Cicero’s eyes were wide, his entire body frozen at the touch. Atticus could feel the way his jaw tensed beneath his fingers. He opened his mouth to speak, to ask whether this was okay, whether this was ridiculous and absurd and so, so wrong—but Cicero simply closed his eyes, and gave an almost imperceptible nod.

Atticus closed the gap between them, tenderly and cautious at first, but when Cicero shifted to move closer, he deepened the kiss, feeling as though their entire lives had been on a collision course, intertwining and missing each other narrowly until this final, finite moment—this speck of unknowable bliss.

And when Atticus pulled back to glance at Cicero’s face—no longer pale as bone, but red and heated and dazed—he felt as though he could never be this happy again.

***

**32 BC**

He placed the letters down. His eyes were wet, and yet a smile still graced his cracked and wearied lips: a smile dedicated to days gone by, days lost to the ravages of life and time, washed away like branches on the shore. He had not thought of this moment in many a year, could not bear to picture the way that Cicero had breathed out an exultant laugh of joy, breathless and amused and embarrassed all at once. To dwell on the knowledge that he would never hear such a laugh again.

That his laugh was lost to the world forever.

He found himself, sometimes, wishing that he had done things sooner. But back then, when they were both so young and so very foolish, they could never have known how their fates were to be arranged. 


	3. Chapter 3

_I think that if I touched the earth,_

_It would crumble;_

_It is so sad and beautiful,_

_So tremulously like a dream._

_\- Dylan Thomas, Clown in the Moon_

 

**32 BC**

He awoke to the soft chirping of birds, half-awake and in a daze. It was not one that he was unused to; he felt as though, for these past few years, he had been living within little more than a hazy, unfulfilling sleep.

The Rome that he knew was gone, only retrievable through crumpled, age-worn parchment. The images in his mind’s eye were the only signs that it had ever existed at all.

**60 BC**

_Greetings!_

_I worry that we have not been writing as much as we usually do. I, on my part, have certainly wished to, but have restrained myself terribly from fear of bothering you. I do hope that this letter is not, in fact, bothering you, but should that be the case, please, feel free to delay your reply. However, I feel compelled to let you know that I ask Tiro every day if your handwriting has shown itself!_

_Things are well back here in Rome. I do hope that you will visit us soon, for “love is the attempt to form a friendship inspired by beauty", and you, my friend, I believe to encompass all that is beautiful in this world._

_Farewell._

Atticus stared at the letter in front of him—at Cicero’s rounded letters and delicately penned words—and rolled his eyes. Cicero’s moods were changing by the letter—one day blunt and achingly factual, the next loving and affectionately bold—and Atticus began to feel as though Cicero himself did not know how to behave. Granted, he was partially responsible for that, but rather than guilt, he felt a small inkling of amusement at the effect he had on Cicero’s emotions. Not that he wanted his friend to feel embarrassed or uncertain—of course, that was not the case—but Cicero’s newfound nervousness around Atticus was something rather endearing, as though for the first time in his life, the man was repeatedly speechless.

Immediately after the kiss, Cicero had closed up spectacularly, talking of anything and everything except for what had just passed between them. He’d hurried them both back to the villa, and spent the entire day huddled in Atticus’ library, feigning extreme interest in one of his books. The day after that, he’d departed: civil, friendly, kind—distant.

Atticus had been worried at first, he could not lie. He had fretted over the act for weeks, anxious as to whether he had pushed Cicero into it, whether it was a step neither of them were quite ready to take. But then Cicero’s letters had resumed as usual, and it was something that came easily to them both. Something familiar. Something he could deal with.

In December, Quintus and Pomponia had experienced a rather terrible argument, drawing both Atticus and Cicero into the chaos. But all of Atticus’ irritation had been lost the moment he had received Cicero’s letter, laughing to himself at his friend’s worried tone, at his wariness and cautious attempt at a joke.

_…I beg you to take this view, for it is the dearest wish of my heart (which is yours as no one else's can be) that there should not be one of my family or friends who does not love you and is not loved by you._

_…You smile? This is no laughing matter, believe me. What else shall I write to you? What? I have plenty to say, but must put it off to another time. If you mean to wait till you hear, let me know. For the moment I am satisfied with a modest request, though it is what I desire above everything—that you should come to Rome as soon as possible._

_(Book 1: 1.17)_

The former passage had certainly caused Atticus to raise an eyebrow, wondering at his friend’s motives. They had always been free to talk of their care for each other, but something about this letter had felt different to him, as though the tone had shifted slightly, as though Cicero was saying in writing what he could not face in words. His attempts at levity had been charming nonetheless.

Atticus’ mind drifted back to the most recent letter, to Cicero’s persistence in inviting him to Rome. They had not seen each other in many months, and, despite the ease with which they had been writing, he feared that face-to-face it would not quite be the same. He placed the letter on the table, sighed, rubbed at his eyes, and then said to a nearby slave: “I believe it is time to pack our bags.”

For when Cicero called, he answered.

He spent the entire journey—both on land and sea—reading over Cicero’s letters, digging through the language until he had cross-examined every single word, uncovered every possible meaning. His eyes were aching by the time that they reached Rome, a few days after his departure, and sleep had done little to quell his nerves—not that he would let it show. His mind was racing, dancing, screaming for respite from the constant dwelling on _what if_ and _how come_ and _oh gods this is actually happening._

As they drew up to Cicero’s villa—newly purchased, on the Palatine hill—Atticus shook his head and laughed breathlessly. This was ridiculous. He had known the man for years. They had shared every secret and every fear. He had no reason to feel nervous. If Cicero’s letters had been anything to go by, he had taken it upon himself to pretend that the kiss had never happened at all.

Perhaps that was best, Atticus thought. Perhaps that was easiest.

But perhaps that also broke his heart.

As it turned out, things would go just as smoothly as he had expected, which is to say that things did not go very well at all. It was Tiro who greeted him at the entrance, as friendly and warm as he ever was. He touched his arm lightly and said, “He has been talking about this for weeks. All I hear is your name.”

Atticus tried to ignore the twitch in his chest. “I am sorry to hear that.”

Biting his lip, Tiro said, “Do not be. I have been just as excited as him.”

“I am not quite sure that is true,” Atticus chuckled, and bowed his head modestly. The house was strangely quiet. “Where is he?”

A small frown marred Tiro’s features. “He said he would be just a moment. I will go and see what is keeping him.”

“Please,” Atticus said, with a gentle wave of his hand. When Tiro disappeared, he leant his back against the nearest wall and stared at the painting opposite. He followed the brush strokes with his eyes, fiddling with the edge of his toga. He yanked his hand away, holding both together in front of his body. “Pull yourself together, Titus,” he whispered, rolling his eyes at his own foolishness.

A minute passed. And then another five. Now, he knew something was wrong. Just as he was about to follow in Tiro’s direction, the man himself appeared. “He is feeling unwell,” Tiro said, attempting an apologetic smile, “but he tells me to assure you that it is nothing bad, and to inform you that you may use the house as though it were your own.”

Atticus raised an eyebrow. “Unwell?” he said.

Tiro seemed to squirm beneath his stare. He nodded, as though not trusting himself to speak.

“Very well,” Atticus said. “Are Terentia and young Marcus in?”

The change in conversation made Tiro physically relax. His expression shifted into one considerably less guilty. “Yes—just through there,” he said, and Atticus decided not to trouble the man any further, choosing instead to entertain himself for the day.

“Thank you, Tiro,” Atticus said, “and please, do tell Marcus that I am,”—he paused, checked himself—“that I am hoping for a quick recovery.”

Tiro nodded, and then hurried away, taking the opportunity to escape whilst he could. Atticus watched him leave with a sombre disposition. “Unwell,” he repeated, and it was a lie that he tried hard to believe.

The evening, however, did not pass poorly; he discussed much with Terentia, and humoured her son’s artistic ineptitude, marvelling at his stick-figure drawings and stories. The light of day began to fade away. Marcus was sent to bed, and it soon became clear that Cicero did not intend to join them.

“Has Marcus been unwell long?” Atticus said, leaning back on the couch.

Terentia raised one delicate eyebrow. “No,” she said, plainly.

“When did this illness strike?”

Her expression settled into one of scarcely masked disapproval. “This very morning.”

Atticus nodded, and Terentia distracted herself with the glass of water in her hands, spinning it beneath the shaft of moonlight pouring in through the window. He wondered how much she knew, and felt a searing pang of guilt, praying to Jupiter that it did not show on his face. “Perhaps I will go and check on him,” he said, tentatively.

“I do not think he will appreciate that.”

“He is truly that ill?”

“No,” she said, “but he has requested to see no visitors today.”

“Surely, he does not mean—”

“Yourself included.”

“I see,” Atticus said, using all of his might not to fidget beneath her gaze. “I suppose this is good night.”

Terentia’s face broke into a small smile. “Good night, Titus,” she said, as though she could read his very mind—as though she was witness to each and every secret.

He did not go straight to his room, and he supposed that Terentia was entirely aware of that fact, for she busied herself with mindless tasks, as though she had nothing better to do. Knocking three times on Cicero’s door, he paused for only a moment before turning the handle, and bearing witness to an empty room. The sheets on the bed were perfectly arranged, and it was apparent that the room had been empty all day; everything was untouched, unused, and Atticus sighed softly before making his way to the study.

This time, he did not pause after knocking, but instead walked straight in, cutting off Cicero’s small, “Who—?”

“You are avoiding me,” Atticus said, and Cicero closed his eyes briefly. He was sitting at his desk, holding a sheet of parchment in place with one hand, and gripping a pen with the other. His posture was forcibly relaxed as he leant back in his chair.

Cicero stared at him blankly. “No, Pomponius, I am not.”

Atticus felt as though the study was shrinking with each passing second. “I see. Terentia said—she said that you did not want to see me, insisted that I not visit you. Marcus, you do not think—?”

“She does not know,” Cicero said, with a flick of his hand. “There is no way that she could have found out.” His words, his actions, were so sure, and yet there was something else in his demeanour that suggested a deep sense of anxiety. “She was telling you the truth.”

Atticus paused, head tilted slightly to the side. “You—did not want to see me?”

Cicero moved his eyes back to his desk. “I am not feeling well. I did not want to see anybody.”

“You do not look ill.”

“Perhaps I am good at hiding things,” Cicero said, and the words were bitter and dry. It was a tone that Atticus rarely heard, and one that was never directed at him—until now.

“I do not know what I have done to offend—” he began, but Cicero was quick to cut him off.

“Nothing,” he pressed, moving a hand to cover his eyes. “You have done nothing. It is I who have been foolish. I have a family: a wife, a daughter, a son. I do not know what I was thinking. I do not—”

“Your letters have shown none of this, Marcus. In fact, quite the opposite. What has brought this on?” Atticus’ voice was rising, his confusion slipping between annoyance and desperation.

“It shouldn’t have happened,” Cicero said, resting his head against the wall behind him. His eyes were red, his body slumped in weary defeat. “I got carried away, and I apologise.” Each word seemed to drain him further, as though they burned and scraped at his throat, tearing themselves away.

Atticus exhaled a shallow breath, and then smiled. “Do not apologise,” he said. “You are right. You—you have more to lose than I. It was a moment of weakness. I will not repeat it.”

Cicero looked at him with such sadness, then, that all Atticus wanted to do was reach over and take his hands within his own; he wanted to tell him that it would be all right, that his reputation was safe and his family was well. But he could not. He did not dare to.

And so instead, he stepped forwards—much to Cicero’s confusion—and peered at the parchment on Cicero’s desk. “What are you writing?”

“Nothing,” Cicero said, but the way that he edged slightly closer, fingers flattening against the work, sparked Atticus’ curiosity.

“Is that—written in verse?”

“No.”

“It is.”

“It is not.”

“Marcus, let me see.”

“It is not finished.”

“I do not care.”

Cicero sighed dramatically, holding out the parchment for Atticus to take. “It will be perfect once it is complete,” he said, “but I am not yet done.”

Atticus’ eyes scanned the poem. “This is—about your consulship?”

Cicero nodded expectantly. “What do you think?”

Atticus did not raise his eyes from the parchment. To put it simply, the poem was terrible. Cicero had sent him much poetry in his time – some better than the rest – but it had always been a skill that he had never quite managed to tune. Atticus coughed before staggering out, “It is good.”

“You truly think so?” All previous tension left the room, like a bird fleeing from the winter air. “Yes, yes, of course you do. It is—I do think that it is one of my finer works.” He leant forward, resting his elbows on his desk and his chin in one hand. “I shall begin making copies as soon as I am done.”

At this news, Atticus did not know whether to laugh or cry. “Copies?” he said, but Cicero did not hear him; he had already begun drawing up a list of names. Atticus pitied each and every one of them.

Later that night, once Atticus had successfully (and kindly) convinced Cicero to, at the very least, rethink some choices, the pair left the study, talking as though nothing controversial had ever passed between them. Terentia was still awake, reading from a book in the candlelight.

“Ah,” she said, placing a bookmark between the pages. “You two have made up.”

Cicero reclined next to her, an easy smile on his face, as Atticus took the seat opposite. “We were not arguing to begin with,” he said, and Atticus fought to repress a scoff.

Terentia did not respond, but looked between the two of them silently. She placed the book on the table beside her, then tucked a loose strand of hair behind her ear. “Do you think me stupid?” she said, and Cicero’s jaw tensed.

“All right,” he conceded, raising his hands in mock surrender, “perhaps we were arguing a little.”

She said, “You know that is not what I mean.” Atticus did not speak, but his eyes shot to Cicero in a moment of guilt, and he realised that even if Terentia had been uncertain, she most certainly was not for much longer. He was sure that his face gave everything away.

Cicero, however, maintained his composure. Atticus could not comprehend how he did it, seeing the way that his fingers shook and his eyes darkened in fear, the sheen of sweat lacing his forehead. “I don’t—” he began, but Terentia cut him off sharply.

“Marcus, I do not care.” Her hands were fiddling with the material of her dress. Her eyes drifted to Atticus, and he dropped his gaze to the floor. “You may both do as you wish. It is not my place to stop you. After all, I am only your wife.”

Cicero leant forward, face as pale as candle wax. “You are not _only_ my wife, and I am sure that you know that. We did not—we have not done anything. I could not. You, Marcus, Tullia—you truly think that I would give that up?”

Her face softened a little. There was a glint to her eyes that almost looked like tears, but then she exhaled gently and turned her head away from the light. “I allow it,” she said.

“Terentia, I am—so very sorry,” Atticus whispered, “but we have not—that is to say, nothing more than a kiss has happened, and Marcus was not even the one to initiate it. But how—how did you—?”

“Find out?” Her fingers curled tighter around her dress. “I have had my suspicions for years. I never assumed that either of you had done anything, but the tension in this house today has been palpable, and—well, you certainly did not hide your guilt well.” She glanced briefly at Cicero. “Neither of you.”

A tear stained Cicero’s cheek, falling onto the white of his toga, leaving a mark that soon doubled. “I do not know what to say,” he said, gently. “I have—I have done wrong by you, and I ask for your forgiveness.”

She said, “You have it.”

“Terentia—”

“I will keep your secret.” She stood, then, straightening the creases in her clothes with her palms. She grabbed the book from the table and held it to her chest. “Make sure that you both do the same,” she said, and then she left the room, regal and dignified, not once looking back.

The space that she left fell more full than it ever had, as though all of the air had fled the room, leaving nothing behind but a growing suffocation. Cicero did not move for a long while, and then he rubbed viciously at his eyes and stood with such speed that it made Atticus jump. “Well,” he said.

Atticus blinked once, and then: “Marcus, I am sorry. Are you—?”

“I will see you in the morning,” he said, and then he exited the room, not quite as dignified, but just as poised, as Terentia had been.

Left to his thoughts, Atticus realised the direness of their situation, the trouble that he could have caused. If the other senators had found out—if Cicero’s children had somehow heard the news—they would have been sunk.

He crossed the room and extinguished the candle with his fingers.

The following morning, Atticus awoke with a heavy feeling in his chest. It was early, the sky still soaked in darkness, and it seemed as though the entire world was asleep. As he crept from his room, down the hall and towards the garden, he realised that the feeling in his heart was a deep and unrelenting longing, an uncomfortable sadness that he feared would never leave. He did not know how to be rid of it.

As he passed Cicero’s study, Atticus was forced to pause, to do a double-take. The door was open, and Cicero was sitting at his desk, staring intently at the wood, as though searching for something within the knots that he could not find. His brow was furrowed, his hands in a steeple beneath his nose.

“You are up early,” Atticus said, and Cicero almost fell from his chair.

He rose instinctively, blinking the mist from his eyes. “As are you.”

Atticus shrugged his shoulders. “Let us talk,” he said. Then, as Cicero opened his mouth to argue: “Outside. Please.”

Cicero nodded, and followed him through the house, not a single word leaving his lips. Atticus had begun to realise that Cicero’s silence indicated a deep sense of gloom, of something being horribly, terribly, wrong, and he hated it with every part of his being.

Once they reached the garden, Atticus took Cicero’s hand within his own – it was cold to the touch, a man made of marble – and guided him towards the grass, beneath a small collection of trees and a hanging shrine to Ceres. The air smelled of fruit and rain, a small patch of red now visible in the distant sky, and the ground beneath their bodies was wet with dew. 

“Tell me,” Atticus said, “what you are thinking.”

Cicero looked at him blankly. “I am wondering why grown men such as ourselves are not sitting on _chairs_ ,” he said. And then when Atticus’ gaze bore further into him: “Titus, you know all of my thoughts.”

Atticus said, “I wish that were true.” He looked up at the crescent moon, now faded and wan, and his next words were more whispered than spoken. “Where do we go from here?”

“I don’t know.”

Humming a sound of agreement, Atticus said, “What do you fear most?”

“I don’t—”

“Would it really be so bad?”

Cicero turned to face his friend more completely. “I fear the loss of my reputation. I fear that people will use it as a means to mock, belittle, _ridicule_ us all. I fear that your own reputation will be damaged. I fear the breakdown of my family, and then the subsequent loss of your friendship.” He exhaled softly. “I fear that—that I cannot do right by you.”

“I do not,” Atticus said. “I think that you would try your hardest to do right by me every day.” Cicero shook his head gently. “You deny it?”

“What if I could not? It would have to remain a secret. The senators—”

“I am beginning to feel that you care for the senators more than me,” Atticus laughed. “I know that you have big ambitions, Marcus, and that is one of the things that I admire so strongly about you. But do you ever think that, sometimes perhaps, it is best to look towards home?”

“What are you saying?”

“I love you,” Atticus said, plainly. “And I think that I have ever since we were boys.”

It was the first time that he had said the words aloud, the first time that he had truly admitted them—even to himself. And if nothing else, the confession was worth it purely for the look on Cicero’s face. It had started out as blatant shock, then slight embarrassment at the bluntness of Atticus’ words, before finally settling on a dazed stare, face as bright as the richest of apples, mouth parted slightly.

“I—” he began, and Atticus could not help but chuckle; it only made him go redder. “That is a dangerous thing to say aloud.” Cicero pressed a hand to his face. “I don’t—”

Atticus’ laugh faded quickly. He had anticipated a rejection—had been anticipating one all morning—but now that he was on the brink of such a refusal, he was not so certain that his heart could take it. He tried his hardest to offer a small smile. “That was unfair of me,” he said. “We can pretend that this never happened. I realise that—to you, maybe—this type of love seems strange. I am aware that it is not common, and of course, I realise that nothing can truly come of it; we all have our duties to bear. But—”

Atticus was not given the opportunity to finish his sentence. Cicero leant forward, one hand on Atticus’ knee, the other beneath his chin. Atticus felt as though all of the air in his lungs had been removed, sucked out of him into the furthest reaches of space, colouring the sky with pink. He could see the way that the approaching light fell on Cicero’s eyelashes, the way that his jaw trembled ever-so-slightly. And when Cicero—slowly, uncertainly—pressed their lips together, Atticus thought that this was it.

This made every goodbye, every argument, every parting, and every danger worth it. This was his Elysium.

***

**59 BC**

_Greetings!_

_I have been thinking often of our last meeting. You will tell me, “Marcus, you have written that in every letter so far,” but my only response can be that it has not left my mind since, and I have very little belief that it shall._

_As you know, things in Rome are not well. I will not bore you again with the details; unlike the aforementioned, they are something that I would rather endeavour to forget. Caesar is consul. The three are still together. I have agreed to support Antonius Hybrida, and see no other way around it._

_May the gods smile kindly upon us, and bring you soon to my doors._

_Farewell._

The gentle warmth and hushed spring of March was upon them. Pale flowers began to bloom, trees bore their fruits with grace, and the trill of birds drifted through the air like blossom, gliding towards Atticus’ ears. If he was not so assured of Rome’s current chaos—of a Rome resting in the hands of Caesar, Pompey and Crassus, like clay for them to mould—he may even think that it was the most beautiful March that he had seen in years.

Atticus was standing, hidden amongst his fellow citizens, to watch Cicero’s defence speech. At the side of the court, Caelius was likewise observing his movements, one eyebrow arched in lazy superiority, as Cicero gave a detailed account of how he—with Hybrida’s help, of course—defended Rome from such a plague as Catiline.

As the speech drew on, Atticus could almost hear himself groan internally. He ran a hand through his hair, certain that the grimace on his face was undeniable – not that Cicero could see, so wrapped up as he was in his account – and wished that the orator would just meet his eyes for a moment.

But he did not. And as Cicero continued to slaughter the name of Caesar himself, Atticus could only pray that a little bit of enmity would be all that would arise.

It seemed that, on this day, the gods were not listening.

Cicero finished his speech, as pleased with himself as he ever was, but the victory was not to fall to him. Hybrida was found guilty, and Cicero’s defence had flopped. With a forced smile, Atticus made an attempt at consolation, congratulating him on his skill with words, suggesting that there was little more he could have done. “But,” he added, after a slight pause, “was it really wise to antagonise Caesar so?”

“Antagonise?” Cicero waved his hand nonchalantly, an attempt to appear less deflated than he felt. “Titus, he will not care.” 

“Well, you were rather…”

Cicero’s facade faltered slightly. “What?”

“Let us just say that, if I were Caesar—”

“If you were Caesar, I would not have kissed—”

“If I were Caesar,” Atticus pressed (not without a slight chuckle), “I would be rather put out.”

Cicero tilted his head back slightly, eyes following the flight of a bee as it coasted above the crowd. He breathed in deeply, then said, “I suppose you are right—as usual.” He met Atticus’ eyes. “Will you ever stop being so?”

“And then where would you be?” Atticus said.

Calling to Tiro to follow them, Cicero turned and began to make his way home. “If Caesar is angry, I am sure we will hear of it soon,” he said.

Atticus said, “I am certain we shall.”

The news came less than three hours later. 

Tiro had returned home with all of the documents from the trial, leaving Atticus and Cicero to continue their journey alone. Wishing for a bit of peace, the pair had wandered into a small wooded grove, and sat on a severed log at the edge of an algae-filled pond. The air was clearer than in the centre of town, less polluted and stale; Cicero felt as though he could actually breathe for the first time in months.

“It is—so quiet here,” he said, after a while.

Atticus mumbled an agreement, busying himself with something on the ground. When he arose, there was a white flower in the palm of his hand, and his face was glowing. He held it out.

Cicero stared at him as though he had lost his mind entirely. “What are you doing?”

Atticus just continued to smile, eyebrows raised as if in a challenge, and Cicero reached for the flower, moving it to his nose. He breathed in the scent, then rolled his eyes. “Thank you,” he said.

Shuffling back into position, Atticus said, “You’re welcome.”

It was at this moment that a loud footfall was heard, along with an unabashed and indiscreet ruffle of foliage. Cicero stood instantly, quicker than he had ever moved before; Atticus remained seated, looking over his shoulder calmly; and a worn out and bedraggled Tiro emerged from the bushes, panting as though he had ran the entire way.

“Tiro!” Cicero chastised, turning and pressing a hand to his heart. “I do not know whether to be angry or relieved at seeing you.” He laughed, then, and at Tiro’s confused expression, laughed once more, forgetting the absurdness of the situation entirely. 

Atticus, however, had picked up on something far worse. With a delicate frown, he said, “Tiro, what is wrong?”

“It is Clodius,” he said.

Cicero’s laugh faded into an awkward chuckle. “Clodius?”

“Caesar and Pompey, they have—they have granted his adoption. He will run for tribune.”

Atticus’ eyes shot to Cicero, but the man was busy staring at the ground, one arm wrapped around his chest, a hand pressed to his lips. Making to stand, he said, “This does not mean anything.” When Cicero still did not respond, Atticus motioned at Tiro to lead the way, and grabbed Cicero carefully by the arm. Leaning close to his ear, he whispered, “You will be okay.”

Shaking his head in an attempt to clear the mist, Cicero nodded briskly, slowly removed his arm from Atticus’ hold. He closed his eyes. “I think I shall retire from politics for a while.” As Tiro frowned, looking back, Cicero smiled and added, “What do you think of a holiday, my dear Tiro?”

“A holiday? But Clodius—”

“Do not think of him,” Cicero said, and then turned to Atticus. “I shall write the whole time, as always.”

“As always,” Atticus repeated, and then with a gentle, inconspicuous touch of Cicero’s hand, they made their way home. 

When Terentia heard the news, the chill coming from her was almost physical, the coolness of her manner as real as any weather or storm. She stared at Cicero in utter disbelief, her face contorted into a look of clear disdain. “You did _what?_ ” she said, and Cicero winced at the sharpness of her words.

Atticus grimaced, looked between the two. “He insulted the triumvirate, and now Clodius—”

“ _Yes_ , I know, thank you,” she hissed, and Atticus bowed his head, took a step back. This was a conversation not meant for him.

Leaving the pair to their discussion—if it could even be called that, Atticus thought, as he heard Terentia’s harsh rebuke—Atticus waited in Cicero’s study, browsing his shelves and watching the life outside of the window. Terentia’s anger was only out of care—for both their family as a whole, and for Cicero himself—and a deep seated worry that all would not last. He could not blame her.

When Cicero entered the room, he looked ready to drop. He looked up to where Atticus stood. “Are you— _smirking_?” he said.

“Did you even manage to respond?”

Cicero said, “In pieces,” and the pair laughed, as though the situation was no more than a small disagreement.

But then Cicero’s nervous demeanour returned, his hands twitching, unconcealed, by his side. “If Clodius does anything, I can’t see it being little more than a court case. I can handle a court case,” he said, the words flying out, slightly too fast and too shrill. “Of course I can handle a court case.” He moved a scroll that lie resting atop his desk. “It is just a shame that I cannot be the one to defend myself,” he laughed nervously, then moved the scroll back to its original position, unable to keep his hands still.

He turned, then, leaning his back against the wood, to face Atticus. “What should I do?” he said.

And as much as Atticus knew that, in complete honesty, Cicero had brought this upon himself, he crossed the room, held the orator’s shoulders, and shook them lightly as he said: “Clodius is little more than a child attempting to play with men. You shall be fine. You always are.”

And words that may have been empty platitudes from anybody else were suddenly turned into the brightest words of all.

***

Atticus left Rome at the same time as Cicero. He returned to Epirus, and spent the spring wandering along the shore, philosophising with his Greek friends, and breathing in the clear air that he had so missed.

The stream of letters was constant. He sat in front of the waves, parchment in his hand, and watched as the sunlight danced along the ink. He smiled, unaware of how his hand moved to his lips, and already began to draw up a reply in his mind.

From now on, he decided, things would be different. Not in a way that would change anything vastly—he loved their relationship too much to sacrifice anything at all—but in a way that would enable him to _show_ his care, to feel Cicero’s skin, his lips, against his own. He wanted to be with Cicero in every way possible; it was all he would ever want again.

When he received the news that Cicero would be travelling to Arpinum, he set off (Atticus began to feel that he spent more time following this man than doing anything else) and when he arrived, in the safety of the countryside, he greeted Cicero with a kiss. The orator had stumbled backwards slightly before reciprocating, and for a short while, they were as alone as they could ever be.

The days passed in a blur of mirth and laughter. All of the worry of Rome was forgotten, and if Cicero ever dared to bring up the topic, Atticus would kiss each and every worry away, until Cicero could hardly remember Clodius’ name, until his own name was lost somewhere in the heat and delight of the moment. And the nights were no less beautiful: skin against skin, whispered promises in the dark. They learnt each other anew.

When they parted, it was never for long. In August, Atticus received a rather urgent letter, begging for his return. Cicero was now in Rome, and Vattius, he said, had subtly accused him of partaking in an attack on Pompey’s life—a fact that, Atticus knew, was utterly absurd. The men, although not always agreeing, were friends, and had been since they were young. By the gods, they had somehow managed to stay by each other’s side all these years.

_Greetings!_

_…I don't despise the danger, for I never despise any danger, but neither do I much fear it. People indeed show very great affection for me, but I am quite tired of life: such a scene of misery is it all._

_…However, in the midst of these miseries I keep my spirit erect and undismayed, and maintain my position in a most dignified manner and with great caution. Pompey bids me have no anxiety about Clodius, and shows the most cordial goodwill to me in everything he says._

_…I shall breathe again when I once see you._

_Farewell._

_(Book 2: 2.23)_

When Atticus reached Cicero’s villa, the man all but fell into his arms, ushering him inside. “My friend, you are finally here,” he said, and before Atticus could respond: “I have been awaiting your return since the moment you left me in Arpinum.”

They talked all day, continuing far into the evening, when the bustle of life settled down and everything became coated in a soporific haze. As he stared out at the garden, Cicero said, “Caesar has offered me a position—on his staff in Gaul.”

Atticus said, “Perhaps he is offering you a way out. Will you take it?”

“Take it? Of course not,” Cicero breathed. “I do not hate the man, but neither do I agree with him. I shall stand and weather the storm in Rome.”

“Is that wise?”

“Perhaps not. But I believe that it is _right_ ,” Cicero said, and Atticus could not fault his reasoning, his virtue.

“Very well. Then I shall stand and endure it with you.”

Cicero looked at him as though he was seeing the face of Mercury, of Saturn, of Jupiter himself, then smiled, and the garden paled in his presence.

***

The year came to an end. The next one loomed inevitably before them all. Things that once seemed so clear were to be slashed and dulled and hazed. Things that seemed certain were to fall.

Clodius was to be tribune, and their lives were resting within his palms. He did not care if they fell and shattered.


	4. Chapter 4

_Then it wasn’t possible any longer  
to stare at heaven and not be destroyed_

_\- Louise Glück, Trillium_

**32 BC**

This time, Atticus did not sleep. He did not get up from his chair, nor put the letters down; he did not move, or bathe, or debate, or eat. He was utterly absorbed, barely able to distinguish the past from his current life, lost within the terror and the fear and the despair of those next few years.

And yet, despite it all, regardless of how it made his heart crack and tear, he did not want to leave.

He did not want to forget.

***

**58 BC**

The rain fell heavily atop the crowded landscape. Drops crashed to the ground, stirring up the earth, mixing together soil and grass, weed and mud. The sky was dark, dripping with the kind of insistent, piercing rain that is often found in February, and the clouds were rolling like boulders. And in the middle of his garden, a blanket wrapped loosely around his shoulders, toga dragging through the dirt, Cicero stood and did not move.

“He has been out there for hours,” Tiro said, as Atticus came rushing into the villa. “He will not come in. The rain started and he—he still would not leave.”

“Thank you for getting me, Tiro,” Atticus said, touching the man’s arm briefly. With a shake of his head, he rushed outside, making no attempt to shelter himself. “Marcus,” he said, but Cicero showed no sign of hearing him. He grabbed Cicero’s hands, pressed them to his mouth in an effort to quell the chill. “We must go inside.”

Cicero tilted his head, allowed himself to lean against Atticus’ side. “This will be no ordinary court case,” he said. “They have all left me.”

“We can discuss this inside. Please.”

He dropped his head onto Atticus’ shoulder. “I have been abandoned.”

Frowning deeply, Atticus said, “Come, Marcus,” and putting his arms around Cicero’s side, pulled his friend towards the house. Cicero sat in his study, mind someplace else, as Atticus and Tiro busied themselves around him, replacing his dripping blanket with one that Terentia had tried to warm up, and wiping his feet clean of the mud.

Once they were alone, Atticus dropped to his knees, and took Cicero’s hands within his own once more. “This is not the end,” he said.

Cicero scoffed, a quiet, solemn sound. “Caesar no longer cares. Pompey would not even see me.” He bit the inside of his lip, then said, “Would you believe that he snuck out of his own home just to avoid a conversation? The man could not even talk to me—could not even _look_ at my face. Cato and Hortensius have advised flight.”

“You mean to leave Rome?”

“Ever since Clodius proposed that godforsaken bill, I have been taunted, mocked, _attacked_ in the streets. His supporters throw mud at me as I pass, and any support I had—any opposition of his ways—has been quelled.” He gently removed his hands from Atticus’ hold, pushed himself up to stand. “Quintus agrees with Cato,” he said. “Terentia, too.”

Atticus seemed to consider this a moment. “I suppose there is little choice.”

“I could always kill myself,” Cicero said, and although he attempted a wry smile, Atticus could see the way that the possibility danced before his eyes. His voice dropped to a whisper. “What is the point of living if I cannot be virtuous and loved?”

Anger sparked within Atticus’ heart, scratching through his veins like glass. “ _Loved?_ You mean to tell me that you think Quintus, Tullia, Terentia, Marcus, Tiro­—you think they do not love you? And what of myself? Have I not proved it enough?”

Cicero stopped pacing the room, eyes glistening. The grey light from the window draped over his body. He almost appeared made of stone. “I did not mean— I did not mean to suggest—”

“I know,” Atticus breathed. “I know what you meant.” Neither moved and then: “But I see the way your mind works, and I see the contemplation that is there. Do not do anything stupid, Marcus. For all of our sakes.”

“For you, for my children,” Cicero said, “I would endure anything.”

***

He left his home under the cloak of night. After kissing Terentia and Marcus goodbye, eyes consumed with fear and a heavy sense of guilt, he insisted upon visiting Tullia, refused to leave until he had. “She cannot find out from somebody else,” he said, and accepting the dangers, turned up on Frugi’s doorstep.

Tullia’s hair was twisted into a long braid over one shoulder, her delicate face tainted with worry. She held a candle within her palms, the light placing an ethereal glow upon her skin, like a spirit, a shade. “Father,” she said. “Titus. Tiro.” Her gaze flit between them all. “Has something happened?”

“Nothing terrible, my darling, nothing we cannot withstand,” Cicero said, “but I must leave Rome.”

“Leave Rome?” She placed the candle down on a nearby stand, then turned to face him. “A voluntary exile?”

“No one is left to protect me,” he said: plainly, without a hint of self-pity.

Tullia placed a gentle hand upon his cheek, feather-light. “I would if I could,” she said, then cleared her throat and pushed back any tears that may have fallen. “You shall do whatever must be done. You always have.”

As Atticus watched the scene unfold before him, he realised just how much Tullia had grown. She was so much like her parents, and so very beautifully kind. Her personality was simply one that could cheer up the most sombre of ghosts, the most desperate of men.

She pulled her father into a hug, and Atticus saw the way that Cicero’s body wilted, like a flower plucked from the ground, before his shoulders stiffened and set. “You shall be fine,” he said. “Titus and Quintus will make sure of it.”

She said, “I do not doubt it for a moment.”

And as Cicero left the house—a feat which, by itself, seemed to drain him of any remaining life—Tullia waited by the entrance, and did not leave until she could no longer see him. Until he could not be identified from the darkness.

The very next day, a second bill was passed, and Cicero was declared an outlaw.

***

His exile broke him. It was as simple as that. In the beginning, the letters had been short: rushed, scribbled writing with a shaky hand. Atticus pictured him sitting in his carriage, a blanket over his lap, attempting to form legible words.  Atticus did all that he could to try and rally support for Cicero’s case, but things were difficult, and many were not willing to risk their own lives for his.

He fled, from one place to the next, forced to abandon plans and to create new ones. He was at the mercy of the governors, and many did not feel merciful. He was at the mercy of his friends, but they could do little. His letters grew ever-increasingly sombre, and Atticus tracked his movements, waiting for the chance to catch up, to see him once more. He was a man on the edge; he travelled the provinces like a jagged wound.

_I hope I may see the day when I shall thank you for having compelled me to remain alive._

_Truly, my dear Pomponius, I am very sorry I consented to live. (Book 3: 3.3)_

In Rome, Atticus gave money to Cicero’s family, attempted to offer words of consolation; he knew they would do little, but it could not hurt to try. Terentia and Tullia had taken up wearing clothes of mourning, and others had followed in their example. They did not give up on him once. They did not hesitate in their efforts for a single moment.

They made sure that, despite his beliefs, he was not alone.

But things held Atticus up: matters of importance, emergencies, dealings with clients and friends. He knew that Cicero was waiting for him—he had known it from the start—but he could not leave just yet. He pictured Cicero receiving his letters, face lit and finally feeling a glimmer of hope, before his eyes scanned the parchment and his shoulders dropped and he smiled sadly. “It is fine, Tiro,” he would say. “He will be here soon.”

The mentions of suicide in Cicero’s letters continued to grow. Sitting at his desk, Atticus rubbed at his eyes before, rather uncharacteristically, throwing the parchment to the side. He remained like that, in falsified darkness, for a while, before leaning back in his chair, grabbing a pen, and proceeding to write.

 _You must not be so faint-hearted_ , he said.

 _You must be realistic_ , he said.

 _You must not show this weakness to others_ , he said.

And in his heart, he knew that he meant none of it. The words were written in anger, in _wretchedness_. Where he wanted to console, he scolded; where he wished to declare his love, he was cold. He hated himself in that moment, and yet he passed the letter to his slave, and it was gone. He did not think of Cicero’s reaction this time.

Rumours began to spread. Cicero’s name was being tarnished in his absence by those who wished to see it dragged through the mud, who wished to see him return—if at all—with nothing. Atticus worked tirelessly to be rid of them. He grew weary. Every limb—every _bone_ —of his body seemed to ache from somewhere deep within his core. He wanted to sleep, to rest. He wanted peace.

Cicero, unhinged and falling further into misery, began to blame any person that he could find—at times, even extending to Atticus, and always, consistently, including himself. He was a man looking for answers, for a way out, but every exit was closed and barred. He could do no more than sit and wait.

_It is my own folly that I blame for having thought that your love for me was exactly what I could have wished it to be._

_You would have held me back when plunging headlong into ruin, and would not have had to encounter the labours which you are now enduring in saving the wrecks of my fortunes._

_I cannot now be the man I was and the man I might have been; and lastly, believe that in this letter it is not you, but myself that I have accused._ _(Book 3: 3.14)_

His words were both jarring and melancholy; his regret was both for himself, and for the trouble he had caused. His mind changed too often, shifting between scenarios and possibilities, and Atticus thought that the man he had once known had been changed, broken, as he was forced to sit by and read it all.

By October, Atticus’ uncle was dead, and having been adopted in his will, Atticus was left heir to a large fortune. He increased the money that he gave to Terentia, to Quintus, to Tullia, and ensured that they were never left wanting, that the only loss they felt was that of Cicero’s presence. But one thing he could not quite bring himself to do was write.

Breaking their tradition of a constant stream of correspondence, the supply came up short on Atticus’ end. Each time he sat down to write a letter, he found that he no longer knew what to say. His mind was muddled, his patience thin. There was so much to be done. So much to try and fix.

Cicero’s recall finally began to look hopeful. Nobody wished to be misled by false hope, but as Atticus watched events unfold around him, he realised that it truly seemed possible.

In December, he visited Cicero at Dyrrachium. Nine months had passed since they had last seen each other, and Atticus found that he felt a certain level of fear at that coming to an end. He did not know how he would be embraced; whether it would be with joy, tears, or accusations, he dared not guess.

Tiro was outside when he reached the villa, and the moment that the slave saw him, his face lit up and he rushed forwards without hesitation.

“Tiro,” Atticus smiled, “it has been long.”

There were tears brimming in Tiro’s eyes as he said, “Where have you been?”

Atticus looked over the man’s shoulder, listened to the gulls as they passed overhead. “I have been busy.” He offered no further explanation. “How is he?”

Tiro’s smile faltered. “He is not well. Forgive me for saying, but—he looks terrible. His mind has not been what it once was. Each day, he wanders the shore, and each night, I am certain I hear his cries from the bedroom.”

The news was as he expected, and yet, Atticus’ heart still ached with an ardent desperation to make everything better, to fix the distance and the chaos that had slowly encroached upon them all. He looked at the entrance to the villa once more. “I shall see him,” he said. Then, without looking back: “How will he receive me?”

Tiro said, “He will love you with his entire heart—broken as it is.”

He was not wrong. Atticus found Cicero sitting at a desk overlooking the beach, unmoving. His gaze was somewhere far beyond the window, and Atticus pictured him waiting here for his arrival—the arrival that Cicero never once gave up hope on—as the days passed and the months blurred together as one. The guilt that consumed his mind was almost unbearable.

“Marcus,” he said, quietly, and the man in the chair jumped as though he had been struck. 

When Cicero turned, his face was that of someone who had seen the heavenly, witnessed the divine: humbled and ecstatic and revering all at once. His eyes filled with tears, a small, choked sound leaving his lips. “You are here,” he said, making to stand. “You are finally here.”

And then, so suddenly that Atticus was forced to take a step back, steadying his weight, Cicero wrapped his arms around Atticus’ neck. He buried his face into Atticus’ toga, and whispered against the material, the sounds muffled and hidden. “I have missed you so very much.”

Closing his eyes briefly, Atticus wrapped his hands around Cicero’s waist. “I know,” he said. “I should have come sooner. I—”

“You have done nothing wrong,” Cicero said. “You never have.”

Atticus did not respond, and when Cicero eventually pulled away, wiping at his eyes with a self-deprecating laugh, Atticus realised exactly how frail he looked. His hair was in disarray, his frame as thin as it was when he was young. He looked not just melancholy, but _ill_ , and his eyes were dimmer than they had ever been. He felt a pain in his heart akin to that of a blade, as though his insides had been carved out and exposed.

Noticing his stare, Cicero smiled and said, “I know, I know. I look awful. I have not had the energy, the need, to make myself presentable. I have truly been in despair—but enough of that now. You are here. And suddenly everything is well. Everything is—okay.”

Atticus did not know what to say. He was so used to knowing how to respond, his head brimming with ideas and quotes and sentiments that he wished to share and sometimes was too scared to voice, that the feeling was new to him, and he despised it with every inch of his being. Why was he acting like this? Why wasn’t he telling Cicero all that he had wanted to say these past few months? Why did he feel so—numb?

As Atticus contemplated, Cicero watched him with curious eyes, not oblivious to his manner, and not unable to sense that something had changed. A few moments passed. “I know that it has been a long time since I last saw you,” Cicero said, “but you—you are behaving rather differently towards me.” As he spoke, his hands subconsciously picked at his fingernails, digging in roughly. “Have I done something wrong?”

Atticus glanced up. “I am just tired, Marcus. We all are.”

It was not a denial. “I’m sorry,” Cicero said.

“I know.”

The room suddenly seemed very large, as though Atticus was a thousand miles from where he stood. He said, “Okay.” A pause. The screech of an animal outside. “I shall inform Tiro that he may come back in.” He moved towards the door, calling out behind him in a voice that was so very small and strained: “Lunch will be ready soon.”

And then he was gone. Atticus walked towards the window, moved the fabric and looked out at the waves. The weather was cold, the view before him solemn and grey.

He stayed for five days, and then he left.

But he did not go back to Rome. He shouldn’t have done it—not with Cicero’s recall being such a prominent topic—and he regretted it the moment he received Cicero’s letter, but he did, and he did not return until the new year. Instead, he spent his time in Epirus, a break that he thoroughly needed. He was not interested in politics. He did not want to hear any more. Of course, he cared about it to an extent, but his care mostly care from that of his duty to Cicero, and now his duty had been done.

Cicero would be recalled, and he would return home.

**57 BC**

_Greetings!_

_After you left me I received a letter from Rome, from which I see clearly that I must rot away in this state of disfranchisement: for I can't believe (don't be offended at my saying so) that you would have left town at this juncture, if there had been the least hope left of my restoration. But I pass over this, that I may not seem to be ungrateful and to wish everything to share my own ruin._

_All I ask of you is what you have faithfully promised, that you will appear before the 1 st of January wherever I may be._

_Farewell._

_(Book 3: 3.25)_

Cicero’s letters became gradually shorter—uneasy, cautious—until they stopped arriving at all. Atticus knew not what he was doing, but news from Rome came often, and that had to be enough. 

The bill to recall Cicero had been held up by Clodius’ gangs. Quintus wrote to Caesar; Caesar wrote to Pompey. Nobody’s efforts ceased, and by the fourth of August, Cicero was no longer an exile. Landing in Brundisium the very next day, he began the journey home, eventually reaching Rome a month later.

His daughter was there to greet him, and Atticus thought that, perhaps, that was most fitting of all.

Back where he belonged, all troubles seemed to leave Cicero’s mind, and his letters resumed their usual enthusiasm, as though nothing at all had gone wrong. They wrote to each other often, and neither spoke of the mist that seemed to cling to them, trailing in their footsteps since their last dreadful meeting.

Neither spoke of what seemed to have been lost.

**56 BC**

_Greetings!_

_I was charmed to see Cincius when he called on me on the 28th of January before daybreak. For he told me that you were in Italy and that he was sending slaves to you. I did not like them to go without a letter from me; not that I had anything to say to you, especially as you are all but here, but that I might express merely this one thing—that your arrival is most delightful and most ardently wished for by me._

_Wherefore fly to us with the full assurance that your affection for me is fully reciprocated. The rest shall be reserved for our meeting. I write in great haste. The day you arrive, mind, you and your party are to dine with me._

_Farewell._

_(Book 4: 4.4)_

He was terrified. As Atticus sat in his carriage, reading the letter over and over again, he could not help but think of the way he had acted so coldly, so terribly. The way he had barely responded to Cicero’s tears, and all but blamed him for his own weariness; he was not fair, that he knew.

When he arrived at the villa, his anxiety had not yet left him, and he wrung his hands out before his body, forcing a smile onto his face. Tiro, as usual, was there to greet him.

“Hello, Tiro,” he managed.

Tiro’s warm face never hardened, never judged. His eyes caught everything, and yet he said little. “I trust you are feeling better now?”

Moving his gaze to the floor, Atticus said, “I am.” Then, patting Tiro on the arm: “Let us go inside. I remember asking you this once before but, how shall he receive me?”

Tiro’s grin widened. “He will love you with his entire heart—considerably less broken this time.”

Atticus could not help the chuckle that escaped his lips. “Never change, my dear Tiro,” he said, and then he made his way indoors.

The house was far warmer than the January air, candles lit in various locations to combat the chill, casting fiery shadows upon the walls. As he peered into the distance, towards the peristylium, Atticus could see the frost that coated the grass and the emptiness of the garden, as though all life had been deserted for the winter.

Terentia was the first person he saw, standing with her arms crossed and a frown etched into her features. “So,” she said, not without a hint of bitterness, “he is here.”

“I know,” Atticus said. “I have been—”

“Marcus is in his study. I will see you at cena,” she said. And then she left, and the dread in Atticus’ heart—the weighted, consuming feeling that ate at his core and devoured his soul—seemed to expand.

“Titus.” The voice came from the direction of Cicero’s study, and as Atticus turned, he saw the man standing in the doorway, one hand resting upon the frame. He looked better, that much was certain. His hair was neat, his toga sparkling. The glint in his eyes had returned.

Staring, as though unable to speak, Atticus did not move. Cicero’s brows drew together as he rushed forwards, and took Atticus’ hands within his own. “There are no hard feelings,” he said. “There never could be.”

Horrified, Atticus felt his cheeks dampen, a few stray tears escaping against his will. “Thank you,” he whispered, and then, carefully, he wrapped his arms around Cicero, kissed his neck softly, laughed with a breathless ease against his skin. “I have been so unkind,” he said.

Cicero pulled back, met his eyes directly. “You are the kindest man that I know.”

At dinner that evening, things took a spiralling turn for the worst. It had begun well, with Cicero reminiscing on his return, the crowds that had visited him, the poetry of his and Tullia’s reunion. His eyes were glowing, bright and youthful, as though the image was right there in front of his sight, no more than a few footsteps away. Terentia watched him carefully, feigning disinterest, but the relief was no less visible on her face; she was glad to have him back, safely, in Rome. A sense of normality had returned.

But then Atticus said, “I am afraid I must tell you all something,” and the perfect façade shattered, iron against glass.

Terentia’s piercing stare flicked to his. She put her drink down on the table, and waited. Cicero, seemingly oblivious, licked his lips and said, “Well, whatever it is, please, let us know. I am sure it cannot be anything too terrible.”

“I am engaged,” he said.

A moment passed. Cicero’s jaw twitched, but the expression on his face did not change. “I am happy for you.”

Terentia leant back, raised her chin slightly. She twisted a ring on her finger. “Engaged?”

“I must explain—”

“Go ahead,” Terentia said, with a slow flick of her wrist. “I am sure we all cannot wait to hear it.”

Atticus paused, gathered his thoughts. When demanding something, Terentia was a formidable force: calm, yet brutal; poised, yet pressing. She was defensive, ready to attack with grace at any given moment. When he did not respond, she said, “You act strange for months, and now this? I will not see him—”

Cicero raised his hands. “All is sorted now,” he interrupted, silently willing Terentia to stop talking. He looked at Atticus. “I truly am happy.”

“She knows,” Atticus said, and Cicero’s lips parted slightly.

“What?”

“Pilia is aware of—our situation.”

Cicero said, “You _told_ her?”

Terentia said, “Can she be trusted?”

Atticus looked between the pair of them earnestly. “If I thought that she could not, the marriage would never take place.” He exhaled, finally free of the weight of such information. “It will change nothing.”

Cicero attempted a small smile, eyes downcast. “I fear things have already changed so much,” he murmured, and then chuckled softly—whether at himself or at the whole ordeal, Atticus did not know.

***

The wedding came and went, and at the beginning of April, Atticus arrived once more. Tullia had insisted that he convince Pilia to accompany him—the pair had grown close during their first meeting, with Tullia making jokes at Cicero and Atticus’ expenses—and so, when it came to dinner, Cicero’s house was full, the noise of laughter finally prevalent once more.

Pilia, it turned out, fit in perfectly. Her and Tullia sat side by side, roughly equivalent in age and matching in wit, and talked the evening away. Cicero watched them, an amused expression on his face, before turning to Atticus and saying, for all to hear: “I think your wife prefers my daughter’s company to your own.”

Atticus chuckled. “I think that, in her position, I would prefer the same.”

Shaking her head gently, taking a sip of her drink, Pilia said, “You are all equal in my eyes.”

The younger Marcus was nine years old now, and laughed at this reply. He bit down on his lip to stop the grin that spread. “Even myself?” he tested.

“Even you,” Pilia said, winking. The boy blushed furiously, and continued to eat his food.

Terentia watched the scene with a sparkle in her eyes, unable to hide her own contentment. “Tullia, dear, why don’t you tell Pilia about your father’s younger days?”

Cicero scoffed and raised his eyebrows. “I think the poor girl knows enough about me by now.”

“I couldn’t say a bad thing if I tried,” Tullia said, grinning brightly.

The evening continued in a similar manner, with jokes and teasing and old tales. Cicero and Atticus embraced it greatly, reminiscing on all that had passed. They were happy, and that was all they could ever ask for again.

And just a few days letter, when an opportunity arose to undermine Clodius’ power once more, Cicero took it upon himself with something akin to delight. The man had been causing mayhem—just in February, he had caused violence to break out at Milo’s preliminary hearing, but to Cicero’s enjoyment, Clodius himself has been thrown from the rostra—and now his sister was accusing an old friend, Caelius Rufus, of attempted murder.

The subsequent attack that Cicero threw at Clodia was brutal, layered in accusations of incest, promiscuity, and disgrace. One quote, that outlasted him for years, was as follows: “And surely another thing entirely would be the vigour that I would use were if it not for animosity between me and this woman’s husband—excuse me, _brother_. I always make that mistake.” He seemed at home in the courts, finally back where he belonged, and his biting wit, it seemed, had not deserted him yet. 

Perhaps needless to say, Cicero was victorious in his defence, and Caelius was acquitted. Clodius had rolled his eyes at the verdict, and for a moment, Atticus thought that he would make an outburst. But then he was strangely silent, and said uncharacteristically little—that is, of course, until the crowd dispersed and Cicero was alone, talking quietly to Tiro and Atticus as he gathered his things.

With Fulvia by his side—a beautiful, yet plain, woman, with sharp eyes and a mind to match—Clodius sauntered towards Cicero, revelling in the way his enemy’s head shot up, face hardening. Cicero lifted his chin and said, “I have no business with you.”

“Is that so?” Clodius chucked. “Ah, I suppose you are right. Although, an exile is nothing to be ashamed of. Every criminal has one.”

Cicero shoved a scroll into his case a little harder than was necessary. He said, dryly, “Really? Then—why, Clodius—I do believe you have been forgotten.”

Beaming, Clodius’ grin did not falter. “I haven’t had the chance to murder any citizens yet. You must tell me how you did it.” He winked, then, and Cicero froze, almost dropping the documents in his hand.

Atticus watched as Clodius edged closer to Cicero, raking his eyes up and down his body. Cicero’s mind, he knew, would be all but collapsing in on itself—both from anxiety and perhaps even the proximity of Clodius—but the orator managed to gather himself quickly. The only evidence that he was becoming gradually unsettled was the way that his fingers fiddled with the torn edge of a piece of parchment.

Fulvia, still attached to Clodius and aware of everything, smiled sweetly. “Why, Cicero,” she said, “you do seem rather fidgety today.”

At that, he turned, refusing to retaliate, and headed in the direction of home. “Come, Tiro,” he said, and Clodius chuckled, undeterred, before pressing a lingering kiss to Fulvia’s nose.

This win, Atticus thought, perhaps went to Clodius.

***

The year passed slowly and with a hint of shame. Cicero—once back in Rome, after a few months of travelling—had no choice but to bend to the will of Caesar and Pompey; he was a free man in law alone. In an attempt to bring back some stability, he had threatened Caesar’s Campanian Law, only to have Pompey pass a warning onto Quintus—one that was, rather explicitly, meant to keep Cicero silent.

And so he was. He submitted, and he hated every moment. In the latter half of the year, Cicero had prepared a speech—a palinode, of sorts—to hail Caesar’s praise, and it was a bitter pill for him to swallow. Everything that happened only further proved his fears that he was losing so much of himself: his freedom; his loyalty; his state.

But then winter arrived, and the sounds of disagreement and turmoil were silenced by a thick blanket of snow. It was rare to have so much at once, and as Atticus trudged up the path to Cicero’s villa, feet freezing against the billowy winds and powder-like ice, his breath was visible in the air before him. A few birds could be heard in the trees above, visible without the shelter of leaves, but the rest of the land was silent, as though all animosity had died alongside the autumnal plants.

Cicero was there to greet him instantly: rushing outside, ignoring the chill of the snow. “Pomponius!” he called, and Atticus raised his hand briefly before sticking it back between the folds of his toga. Cicero, however, seemed to have no qualms, and was it not for the way that his nose lit up like a blood-covered moon, Atticus would almost assume that he did not feel the cold. “You are here,” he said, breathlessly.

Atticus grinned, leaned forward, and met Cicero’s lips with his own. They were cold to the touch, slightly chapped, and yet it filled him with a different kind of warmth, one that only they could share. Cicero smiled as it happened, and when Atticus pulled away, the man’s face was as red as it had been the very first time. Except now, there was no fear, no worry; there was just—this.

And then, as Cicero looked over Atticus’ shoulder, eyes reflecting the white scene before him, his smile only grew. “Pilia!” he said. “Tullia has been asking about you.” Turning to Atticus once more: “It is so lovely to see them get along. Even little Marcus has overcome his shyness.”

Atticus freed his hands, blowing on them gently. “Is Quintus here? Pomponia said that they would be visiting.”

“Yes, yes,” Cicero said, now ushering them all inside. A small chuckle. “In fact, you are the last to come.”

As they entered the atrium, Quintus and his son, now around the same age as the younger Marcus, appeared. “Titus,” Quintus said, raising his arms and embracing Atticus in a hug. “Io Saturnalia!”

Atticus returned the greeting, then ruffled the younger Quintus’ head. “How you have grown, my boy.”

The home was full with people for the first time in years. It was not often, Atticus found, that everyone could be together all at once, but barters had been made and promises had been given in order to allow this one evening, and he was determined to make the most of it.

Retreating back into the snow himself, he dragged a giant case into the room, and knelt beside it. As he unlocked it, both of the younger boys stood eagerly over him, whispering amongst each other. Cicero gave a soft, “Marcus, give Titus some room,” but the boy did not seem to listen, and Atticus did not seem to mind.

As Atticus pulled out the gifts, wrapped in sheets of parchment, he handed them out amongst the company. Terentia took hers—an emerald and gold necklace—and smiled at him warmly. “Titus, it is beautiful,” she said, and kissed him briefly on the cheek. He found himself breathing a sigh of relief.

Tullia and Pilia’s gifts had been similar: a small, simple necklace, and a collection of books each. They sat, by the candlelight, reading into the night, occasionally sharing snippets of information.

The rest of the gifts were handed out—Tiro received a rather extravagant money-box—and Atticus, in return, was granted with new writing tablets, cutlery, and a fine lamp.

When everyone had retreated, and only Cicero and Atticus remained, Cicero smirked and said, “Where is my gift, dear Titus?” He took a sip of his wine. “I had expected at least a traditional sigillaria _._ ”

“Ah,” Atticus said. “I am sorry.” He leant forwards in his seat. “I—must have forgotten.”

Cicero’s eyes narrowed, then he chuckled tenderly. “Your presence is gift enough,” he said. 

Atticus said, “I was hoping you would say that,” and stood, offering one hand to Cicero.

He took it—albeit curiously—and frowned. The room was dark, the light casting shadows across his face like lily-pads, like fresh rain atop of snow. “What—?”

Pulled to his feet, Cicero’s sentence was cut off where it began. Atticus whispered playfully into his ear: “It has been a while, has it not?” Cicero did not move, but Atticus saw the way his lips twitched. “You do still have that spare bedroom?”

Cicero nodded, briskly, and Atticus laughed. Then, with a gentle tug, he guided Cicero down the hall.

***

They did not meet often after that.

Things got in the way. The country fell into chaos.

A few years later and Cicero was forced to defend men he had publicly hated, promise acquittal to those he had wished to see gone. He became, once more, the puppet of his superiors.

But then things changed, and tensions escalated. Clodius was murdered; riots filled the streets; the Senate was burnt to the ground. Pompey became sole consul. Caesar was pushed to the very edge. Cicero spent a year governing Cilicia.

Upon his return, the city (as he told Atticus) had become a madhouse of men thirsting for war. He was called to either side—wanted, it seemed, by both Pompey and Caesar—and a decision had to be made. He tried to prevent it, to distract and persuade, but war broke out, and there was nothing Cicero could do to stop it.

On the 11th January, Caesar crossed the Rubicon. It was a treacherous moment, a terrible precedent to set. Pompey fled with the Senate to Greece, and eventually—despite a letter from Tullia begging him to remain neutral—Cicero followed.

It was the losing side. In August, Pompey’s forces were defeated, and he was killed upon his arrival in Egypt. Cicero, having lost all spirit, returned to Rome—this time, reliant on Caesar’s mercy. It was a terrible time, and for Cicero, things were only destined to get worse, to spiral further.

He would miss much, and lose plenty.

A hole would be created in his heart that would never be filled again.


	5. Chapter 5

_If nothing else, please remember the ghosts I leave behind._

_\- Franny Choi, Notes on the Existence of Ghosts_

**32 BC**

With frail limbs, Atticus opened the chest beside his chair. Within it, were the final few letters, the last remnants of the life of a man who had once been so big, so known, so _alive_. A man who had succeeded, achieving more than anyone had ever expected. A small man from Arpinum who had placed his name among the stars.

Their family was so broken now.

But then, Atticus thought, their family had been broken for a very long time.

***

**46 BC**

It was dawn. The sky was pink, with streaks of blue and orange that seemed to run like paint, and the scent of violets and wildflowers clung to the air.

Atticus was awake—he was always awake now, it seemed—and he sat in his garden, on a small wooden chair, watching as the birds finally began to sing. The sound made him feel better, reminded him of his youth. If he closed his eyes, he could almost picture himself, resting on a beach with the gulls above, talking to Cicero about everything and nothing at all, about his dreams and thoughts, his family and career.

He sat there all morning, and all afternoon too. As the day passed, the timeline in his head continued to unravel, from Tullia’s birth, to Marcus’ arrival, to the trial of Verres and Cicero’s winning of the consulship. It was all there before him, clear in the slowly dimming light.

But then the perfect image of long-lost days fell apart, and Tiro’s voice called his name. He opened his eyes, looked behind him. “Ah, my friend,” he said. “What brings you here?”

“Marcus has sent for you,” Tiro said. “It is—important.”

Atticus pushed himself to his feet, eyes anxious. “I trust it is nothing bad?”

Tiro gave a small shrug, worried his lip with his teeth. “It is nothing terrible,” he said, “but that does not mean that it is good.”

Understanding, Atticus nodded. “Take me to him,” he said, before grabbing a blanket for his shoulders; he found that the chill reached him more easily now.

Cicero’s house was not far from his own, and within a matter of minutes, he was there. Night had fallen, and with a finger to his lips, Tiro guided Atticus through the villa. Cicero, it seemed, also had a fondness for the garden, and Atticus found him there, with his own blanket over his knees, staring out at the still and shadowed scene. There was a basket of figs on the table, seemingly untouched.

“Marcus,” he said, and the man turned.

Cicero offered a small, weak smile. “Just the man I wanted to see.”

Atticus sat in the chair opposite his and waited until he was ready to speak. Cicero’s gaze remained on his lap for a short while, fiddling with a loose thread. “We shall be divorced,” he said, simply.

Atticus’ frown deepened. “Divorced? Marcus, what are you talking about? What lead to this?”

“I have seen it coming for a while,” Cicero said, “as though hurtling towards me, travelling on the wind.” His voice was distant, as though whispering to himself alone. The call of an owl rattled throughout the night, and Atticus drew the blanket tighter around his shoulders. “We have been growing apart. She—she has put up with so much. I have forced her to endure so much.”

“And you want this?”

Cicero’s eyes shot up. “Of course I do not want this,” he said. “I care for her like an old friend; I always have. But, arguments spark easily nowadays: over money, housing, little things that never would have bothered us much before.”

“Then you will stay in contact?”

Cicero rubbed at his eyes. A dormouse scurried past their feet. “I think that it would kill me not to.”

Atticus made a sound of agreement, and the pair sat in silence for a few minutes more. The moon disappeared behind a barrage of clouds, and the blackness seemed to engulf them both. Amidst this darkened night, Cicero said, “I keep thinking of all she has done for me, and all I could not do for her. For over thirty long years, she stayed by my side, kept my secrets and rallied support, and what did I give her? An exiled husband and the enmity of those in charge.”

“People change. Things happen. It is neither of your faults. There is no one to blame,” Atticus said, and then he reached into the basket beside him and withdrew a fig. “Here.” Cicero caught it with ease, and bit into it immediately, as though using it as an excuse not to respond.

Atticus did not press him further, and after another collection of minutes, Cicero spoke again. “She gave me my children—and my career. I will always be indebted to her.”

“She is a remarkable woman,” Atticus said, “and you will both move on from this with grace.”

But the truth, as tragic and as bitter as it was, was that Cicero and Terentia would never speak again. Flight ensued, horrors passed, and tears followed.

And then, hearts overflowing with regret, it was too late.

***

He was at his country villa when they arrived. “My darling Tulliola,” Cicero said, and opened his arms wide. The woman all but fell into them, thinner than she had ever been. Her bun was dishevelled, as though pinned up in a rush, and her face was pale as bone.

“Father,” she whispered. “Father, everything has gone so terribly wrong.”

He tightened his hold on her, as though not even Jupiter could part them. “I will fix it,” he said. “I will fix it all.”

She did not respond, but Cicero felt the cloth covering his shoulder dampen with tears. A muffled sob escaped Tullia’s lips, and Cicero raised his hands to cup her face, pressing a kiss to her forehead. “You will always be welcome here,” he said. “Always.”

She gave a wet smile—brief and flickering—before laughing at her own outburst. She wiped at her eyes, almost aggressively, and said, “Titus and the others are just coming.”

Cicero touched Tullia’s arm affectionately, peered around her body. Making their way down the path were Atticus and Pilia, a small child clinging fervently to their hands, blonde hair lit like straw in the sunlight. Cicero said, “Ah, my other darling! Dear Attica, you are finally here,” and the girl giggled, breaking free from her parents’ hold.

Attica ran down the path, threw her arms around Tullia’s waist. Tullia picked her up—she was no older than five, and weighed considerably little—before balancing her on her hip. As Atticus approached, he said, “Careful, you two. You shall make him cry.”

And although he rolled his eyes, Cicero could not deny it at all.

“Leave him be,” Pilia said. “I think that it is sweet.”

Atticus said, “Do not you start. He shall be sobbing within seconds.”

Cicero wiped beneath his eyes. “I’ll have you know that I usually last at least a minute.” He could not stop the smile that spread across his face, and before he could dwell any longer on his love for them all, he ushered everybody inside, talking eagerly of how they should spend their week together.

By the time evening arrived, Attica had fallen fast asleep in Tullia’s lap, the book that Tullia had been reading left deserted on the table. “She is so beautiful,” Tullia said, running a hand down her cheek. “She must get that from you, Pilia,” she added, with a chime-like laugh.

“I do not deny it,” Atticus said, and Pilia shook her head at the pair of them.

Cicero—who had been fidgeting all night, as though in need of a distraction—leaned forward in his chair and said, “Tullia, I think— we should talk about your situation.” His words were slow, cautious, as though to offend or upset would harm him just the same, as though a blow to his daughter would be a knife-wound to himself.

Tullia’s smile, usually so freely given, faltered. Her face appeared pained for just a moment, and when she tried to laugh gently, it came out as more of a choked, strangled sound. “Father, I don’t—”

“How can I help you? Please. Tell me.” Cicero crossed the room and knelt before her, ignoring her protests. “Tell me how I can help you.”

As he took her hands within his own, Tullia watched, mouth parted. And then, in a voice far too weary for one so young, she said, “He is terrible to me.”

“If you want a divorce, he shall give it to you.” Cicero’s voice was resolute, tinged with a bitterness and a hated for the man who had made his daughter’s life so lonely, so filled with sadness. Cicero wished that she had never married the man to begin with, that he had never been given the chance to know her. 

Tullia stared at him and did not speak. Pilia said, softly, “Tell him.”

But Cicero, despite hearing such advice, said nothing. He did not pressure her; he did not intrude. Instead, he waited patiently, with kind and aging eyes. Tullia looked to the ceiling. “I am pregnant,” she whispered, “and I am scared.”

Cicero let go of her hands, moving to the seat opposite. “It does not matter,” he said. “You do not need him.” Determination radiated from him, his refusal to accept anything other than his daughter’s happiness taking over every thought.

Her eyes flashed. “I have miscarried once. What is to say that it will not happen again? I cannot lose any more, father. I cannot.” She was more angry than wretched, Atticus realised; she had lost so much, and the world was no longer a place that gave her joy. It was an arena, a battlefield. She could not trust it one bit.

“Then that will be sad, and we shall grieve,” Atticus pressed, “but we shall also move on. Together.”

She moved to stand before the window, folding her arms across her chest. In one swift motion, she tucked a strand of hair behind her ear. A moment passed. “Together,” she repeated. 

The word seemed like the purest thing in all the world.

***

**45 BC**

February came, and the rain seemed endless. It fell, heavy and obtrusive, to the ground, causing the trees to shine and the ponds to ripple. The grey clouds overhead imposed a sombre feeling upon the city, as though they were trapped within a small bubble, claustrophobic and hazardous, whilst the rest of the world continued on.

Tullia’s labour had been horrific. She had endured medicine after medicine, cure after cure, but nothing had dulled the pain. Nothing had seemed to _work_. At Dolabella’s house—for it was still his child, and for now, this was still her home—she had laid in her bed, in excruciating agony, and accepted it all. She did not complain, not once, but instead, closed her eyes and gritted her teeth and imagined herself back when she was young, holding Marcus’ hand and paddling their feet in the waves by the shore.

The child did not die, and the mother’s eyes opened once more.

Atticus was at Cicero’s house when it happened. Tullia turned up at his door in the late afternoon, one arm clutching a child, the other wrapped around a servant’s neck. She could not walk without help; her eyes were swollen and red. She had been crying, and the sight was enough to shatter Cicero’s heart. He thought that if he could hold it, it would filter through his fingers like sand.

“Father,” she breathed, and then her knees buckled, and her dress—already damp from the rain—gathered in the mud. Cicero caught her before she collapsed entirely, lifted her into his arms with Atticus’ help. His skin was paler than Atticus had ever seen it, eyes never once leaving his daughter’s face.

They called for a doctor instantly, and Tullia was taken to Dolabella’s house. Cicero sat in the back of the carriage with her, refusing to leave, and Atticus knew that nothing in the world could have convinced him to. And once they were there, as she lay in her bed and mumbled feverishly in her sleep, he remained by her side, wiping her forehead with a damp cloth, smoothing down her hair.

When Atticus entered, eyes downcast, Cicero said, “The doctor does not think she will make it.” He ran a finger down her cheek. “I cannot see this world without her, Titus.”

“She is strong,” Atticus said in reply. “She has been through worse and survived.”

“I think that it would kill me,” Cicero murmured, and the words rang like truth.

“I think the entire world would feel her loss.”

Cicero pushed back his chair, leaving Tullia’s side for the first time all day, and stood before the window. The rain had not ceased, but instead fell harder, drops crashing into the glass, as though trying to break through. Eyes glazed, mind lost somewhere between desolation and despair, Cicero exhaled. “None as much as me,” he said. A pause and then, quietly: “She cannot leave.”

He did not move from his spot. Day passed into night, and night soon turned into dawn. The sky was still dark, but somewhere far off in the distance, a golden light was beginning to breach the emptiness. From behind him, Tullia stirred, and he rushed to her bedside.

“Father,” she croaked.

“I am here,” he said. “Tullia, I have not left. I would not—I would never leave.” He glanced towards the door, to where Tiro stood. “Fetch her mother,” he said, and Tiro nodded, gaze lingering on Tullia for just a moment more.

Atticus and Pilia entered the room then, following in the doctor’s footsteps. “How is she?” Pilia said, visibly shaking. “Tell us she will make it.”

“I am fine,” Tullia said, pushing forwards to rest upon her elbows. But the movement was too much and far too soon, and a ghastly, deathly cough rose from her chest.

The doctor looked at her once, then back at the others. He shook his head slowly. “You should say your goodbyes. I—am so very sorry,” he said, and with a nod, he left the room.

Tullia, head now resting against the pillow once more, shifted her gaze towards the window. “It is still raining,” she said.

Cicero clutched one of her hands within his own. “Tullia. Tullia, please,” he begged.

She looked at him, eyelids fluttering. “Father,” she whispered, and the word was barely audible, lost to the air. “You have made me happy for so long.”

With a choked sob, Cicero pressed his mouth to her knuckles. “And I shall continue to do so,” he said. “I shall do so until I die.”

“Or perhaps the other way around.” The corners of her lips turned up into a small smile.

But Cicero did not laugh, just held her hand to his face and let his tears dampen her skin. After a short while, he managed to speak past the heaving weight in his chest, the metal pressing down upon his lungs. “I love you,” he said.

She said, “I know,” and it was all he had ever wanted to hear.

Atticus could not stop his tears. They fell freely as Pilia crouched beside the bed, pressing one hand to the covers. Tullia called his name, her words becoming fainter by the second, and he took her free hand within his own. “Do you remember,” she said, “a promise you made me when I was just a child?”

Atticus looked at her blankly, face drawn into a frown. “I don’t—”

She closed her eyes, as though picturing the very day, and then said, “You told me that you would make him happy, even when I was gone.” A small laugh, no more than a breath. “How fitting that seems now.”

Atticus pressed his lips to her forehead, whispered against her skin: “I will try my very hardest.”

“Tell the others that I love them,” she said, “as I love each and every one of you.” She coughed again, and a bead of sweat trickled down her neck. “Tell them I was happy.” The words were so quiet now that the rain covered them entirely, smothering them within the steady thud of droplets against glass.

Cicero’s voice broke through the almost silence. “Tullia?” He was on his feet, face contorted into a terrible mix of sorrow. “Tulliola?” he repeated, but her eyes did not open. Her heart no longer beat.

Nobody moved for a very long moment, and then with one final kiss to Tullia’s forehead, Cicero placed her hand down gently and left the room.

That night, Cicero did not move from his chair. He sat in his office, staring at the wall opposite, and spoke not a single word. The rain was still rattling through the building, piercing his ears, keeping him entrapped within that final, dreadful moment.

When Atticus arrived, Cicero’s gaze did not even flit to the door, and so he sat down, a few feet away, and they stayed like that for a while, grey daylight streaming into the room like water.

As if out of nowhere, Cicero said, softly, "I feel death in my heart.” And then he began to sob. His shoulders hunched over like flower stems, his hands shaking like leaves in one of Jupiter's storms, he cried until his voice was hoarse. Covering his face, the sounds coming from the man were almost sub-human: brittle, as though everything but grief had been stripped away, leaving a cracked and empty shell of humanity, a wild calling for aid.

"I would do it all again. I would endure it all again." The words were barely audible. "Exile. Hatred. Enmity. I would endure it all a million times over." Another choked sob. "I thought that I knew grief, but I was wrong. There is nothing in the world—no other kind of suffering—that could ever amount to this. If it meant that she could be back in my arms—that she could smile, breathe freely once more—I would give up my entire career. If the gods offered such a trade, I would take it. But the gods are cruel; they have no mercy." He uncovered his face, pressing steepled fingers to his nose. His eyes fluttered shut.

And then he held Tullia's bulla to his lips—she had given it to him during her first marriage, all that time ago—and thought of her smile, her laughter, her joy. He felt as though he would break, as though his entire life had been ripped away, torn from his own flesh. 

He felt as though he could lie down and let the breath leave his lungs this very instant.

***

**44 BC**

The death of his daughter haunted him until the day that he died. Everywhere he looked, he saw her. In every sound, every bird-song, every flower that blossomed below the spring light. She followed him always, and although this brought him immeasurable pain, he thought that perhaps this was a kind of torture that he could bear. He clung to it; he never let it go.

It consumed him.

By the following year, his grief was an almost palpable thing. He had spent so long locked away, attempting to seek solace within the pages of his books, but eventually, he had no choice but to give in. He accepted his mourning, and let it push him onwards, living the life that his daughter could not.

When Caesar died, finally overthrown in a brutal assassination—the manner of it had been disgraceful, and Cicero wondered briefly whether Tullia would ever have approved—Cicero’s grief returned, much to his own surprise.

Atticus watched as Cicero’s spirit gradually left him. The light that once filled his eyes had gone out.

"I have lost so much in such a short space of time," Cicero said, a few days after the attack. The pair were sat by the firelight, reading in comfortable silence. "I did not like Caesar politically—that is no secret—but he was all that remained of that time, that part of my life that was so turbulent and chaotic, yet ambitious and _alive_." He exhaled wearily. "It is just me now. It is just us."

"Your son—”

"I hope he runs from this life and never looks back," he said.

"You do not mean that."

Cicero ran a hand beneath his eyes, wiped away the tears that fell. "All that is left now is pain," he whispered, and Atticus realised that no words could relieve that hurt.

Closing his book with a gentle thud, Atticus stood, throwing the blanket covering his knees onto the chair. He perched on the arm of Cicero’s own, and pulled the man close to him. With his head pressed against Atticus’ chest, listening to the steady drum of his heart, Cicero felt so very small and fragile, nothing like the powerful force he had once been.

“I will never leave you,” Atticus said. He ran his fingers through Cicero’s hair. “If you were called to the very depths of Hades’ realm, I would not hesitate to follow.”

He meant every word.

***

Caesar’s death did not bring peace, but instead, Rome was thrown once again into chaos, morphed into a political battlefield. The conspirators fled, and Cicero watched as everything fell apart at the seams. And yet, as if rising from the ashes, Cicero seemed to gain a breath of life; in his final years, he regained almost everything that he had lost.

Cicero—with the return of his usual wit and charm—gave a series of attacks against Antony, praising Octavian’s name to the skies. Octavian was no more than a boy—“You cannot put all of your faith in a child,” Atticus had said—but Cicero seemed oblivious. His fame was at its peak, his power at its highest. He was lost in the light of control.

Staying in one of his country villas, Cicero did not rest once. Looking back, Atticus would sometimes wonder whether Cicero knew—whether he realised that this was it, his final moment, and decided to make it grand.

***

**43 BC**

“The boy has betrayed us,” Cicero said one evening, pacing the room. “What was I thinking? He has marched on Rome. Octavian wants the consulship.”

Atticus stroked at his chin, eyes fixated on the fireplace. “Perhaps you can placate him, come to some sort of agreement.”

“I have tried,” Cicero said. “He wants it now. He will not wait.” He flopped down into the nearest chair, forehead creased in worry. “Where does this leave us?”

“In the same place we began.”

“He is no Caesar.”

“Perhaps he will be better.”

“Perhaps,” Cicero repeated.

The fire continued to burn.

***

They were eating when it happened. Tiro rushed in, face gleaming with sweat. “Octavian has joined Antony and Lepidus,” he said. “It’s over.”

Cicero looked up from the food in his hand. “Joined—? What do you mean? What—what has he done?”

“They have made a pact.” Tiro wrung his hands before him. “History is repeating itself.”

Atticus sat up, ran a hand through his hair. His eyes met Cicero’s, and he attempted a small smile. “All we can do is wait. You were close to the boy. He listened to you.”

Very slowly, Cicero placed his food back onto the table, and left the room.

***

It was cold in the garden, and the trees whispered amongst themselves, conspirators of his own approaching death. It was comforting in a way, Cicero thought, as he sat without so much as a blanket, embracing the chill against his skin. He closed his eyes and let the bitter air seep into his bones, run through his veins. He knew then that he was near the end. He knew that, soon, he would be gone.

Cicero heard footsteps pad softly behind him before Atticus sat in the adjacent chair. “Do you know?” he said.

Shifting his gaze to the side, eyes half closed in weary defeat, Cicero said, “I can assume.” He laughed, one short exhaled breath. “Tell me.”

“They have drawn up a proscription list. Your name is there. The rest of your family, too.”

Cicero did not move for a short while, and then his eyes dropped to the floor. He watched the rustle of the grass and smelt the dampness of the night. “I see,” he said. The moonlight did not reach his face, but his toga glinted silver beneath the celestial glow. He remained figureless, shadowed, like death itself.

Atticus pushed back the tears that threatened. “Shall we never be allowed peace?” he hissed, more to himself than to Cicero. He stood then, and the orator tilted his head in question. “We leave tonight. Collect your things.”

***

The journey was made in silence. Cicero sat beside his brother and nephew, clinging to Quintus’ hand as though it was the last chance he would ever have. He stared out of the carriage window. The lands were covered in dusty snow, the trees barren and bare. There was a quietness that seemed to reach far beyond their small group, a stillness that tainted everything they passed.

Atticus and Tiro sat in the seats opposite, neither daring to speak. Atticus watched Cicero with an ache in his chest, a sadness that would not cease. He studied the small dent above his brow, an indication of his worry, and the delicate shadow of his lashes, cast across his cheek like a blackened wound. Cicero’s eyes were glazed, lost in thought, and he picked at the skin of his hands with a mindless, vicious action.

Reaching across, Atticus placed his own hands over Cicero’s, and the man turned his face to look at him. He looked so very tired, and yet, with an effort that made Atticus’ stomach twist, he raised one corner of his lips, as if to say thank you.

Atticus moved his eyes to the ground. If they happened to be caught, he would gladly die with them all.

They reached another of Cicero’s villas by dawn. The younger Marcus was in Macedonia, fighting alongside Brutus, and they would head out to be with him, to face their destinies together.

Whilst the rest of their entourage busied themselves inside, Cicero and Atticus stood before the ocean, gazing out at the horizon. The warmth of morning was beginning to melt the ice beneath their feet, and the sky had shifted into a brilliant orange. It was cold still, but that did not seem to matter anymore.

The brittle crunch of sandals upon sand brought their attention to Quintus’ arrival. His son was beside him, chin raised as if to stop himself from crying. Taking his brother’s hand within his own—Cicero looked at him in confusion, lips parted—Quintus said, “We have decided to go home.”

Cicero withdrew his hand sharply, with more force than he had intended. “Are you mad?”

Atticus said, “Quintus, this is not wise.”

But Quintus’ decision was made. “We need money. We will not last with what we have.” He picked up Cicero’s hand again, more warily this time. “Brother, please. We will return to you soon.”

Cicero seemed unable to speak. His eyes filled with tears, and his shoulders trembled. The sound of the waves continued, evermore, in the background. Eventually, Cicero tugged on the hand holding his, pulling Quintus into his embrace. “I am so sorry,” he whispered. “This is all my fault.”

Quintus pulled back, pressed a kiss to his brother’s knuckles. “Antony could cut off my head and feed it to the dogs,” he said. “It would make no difference. I would do it all again.”

Moving to wrap his arms around his nephew’s neck, Cicero’s breathing became increasingly shallow. “You are so young.” He held the boy tighter. “Look after yourself.”

The younger Quintus nodded, stiffened his jaw. “One day we will meet again,” he said, and Atticus could not shake off the feeling of how wrong those words sounded.

***

The news reached them a few days later, in the mouth of a client Cicero had once helped. His brother and nephew were dead, betrayed by their own servants, and their bodies were being sent back to Rome.

At first, Cicero had not moved, just stared at the man as though he was a liar, as though this was some horrid, tasteless trick. But then the man had lowered his gaze, whispered, “I’m sorry,” and Cicero’s eyes had become terrifyingly dull.

Atticus led him into his villa, one arm around his shoulders. He sat him down, wrapped a blanket around his body. “It is my fault,” Cicero said. “I have killed them all.” His voice broke on the last word, and Atticus hastily wiped away his own tears, kneeling down before Cicero, cradling shaking hands within his own.

“Do not say such things,” he said, and his own voice sounded foreign.

Cicero did not cry. For the first time in a long while, his eyes were completely dry, as though his pain had transformed into a tangible, physical thing that attached itself to his insides and refused to be let out. It clung to him, talons digging deep into his chest, into the very crevices of his soul.

When morning came, Atticus prised his eyes open, found himself still sitting on the floor, slumped against the wood of Cicero’s chair. The man’s eyes were also open, staring at the wall, as though he had been doing so all night.

“Have you slept?” Atticus said, pushing himself up. Cicero gave an almost indiscernible shake of his head. “It does not matter. We must go.” When Cicero did not move, he pulled the man to his feet. He dragged him to the carriage, giving orders to servants as he went, heart beating with such frenzy that Atticus thought it may break.

Tiro said, “He does not look well.”

Atticus sighed, all of the air leaving his lungs. “He is not.” A pause, and then smaller this time: “I fear he may never be again.”

And then, as the snow began to fall once more, they set out for the final time.

***

They reached Formiae in the dead of night. The wind was howling, as though Furies raged within the air, and lightning hurtled towards the earth: shattering the darkness, splintering the gloom. Around them, trees crackled and rasped, like voices of the dead calling for company, broken strings creating a song for the fallen.

The sea was savage and cruel. It raged and crashed and screamed and yowled, waves hitting the shore like bodies. They tried to set out—they tried it more than once—but each time, the winds were too hostile, and Cicero’s own inability to handle the swirl of the ocean prevented them from leaving.

Cicero closed his eyes, pressing one shaking hand to his face. "I am done for," he whispered. "There is nothing left."

Atticus physically jolted at his words. "Do not be silly. We can try something else. If we take the Via Appia and move quickly, we can—”

"No." The word was empty, broken.

"What?"

"There is no rush. There is no moving quickly. There is just—this. There is only this."

"Marcus, you are not making sense. We—”

"We will rest here tonight."

"But—”

Cicero's breathless response came like a blazing dagger to the chest, a molten burning spreading throughout Atticus' heart. "I am tired," he said, and then he turned and walked up the steps to the villa, like a ghost crossing the shores of the River Styx.

The next day, they headed back inland.

***

“I will travel alone.”

Atticus looked at Cicero with wild eyes, desperation rising in his throat. “What do you mean?”

Cicero smiled sadly. “Tiro will be with me. I will meet you back at the coast.”

“You are giving up?”

“Not giving up, my friend. Just—taking a slower route.”

Atticus opened his mouth to respond, closed it just as quickly. “I will come with you.”

“No.”

“But—”

“ _No_ ,” Cicero said, and then he reached forward and pulled Atticus towards him, wrapped his arms around his neck. “If they caught you—if they killed you—I could never forgive myself.” He was calm, Atticus noticed, almost tranquil.

Atticus pulled back slightly, pressed a despairing kiss to Cicero’s lips. He could taste the salt of his own tears, and feel the way that Cicero leaned into the caress, wrapping one frail hand around his. “I love you,” Cicero whispered. “You must know that.”

Keeping his eyes closed, Atticus said, “You make it sound like a goodbye.”

Cicero did not respond, just chuckled softly against his lips in a way that caused Atticus’ chest to splinter. And as he stepped away, refusing to let go of Atticus’ hand until the final moment, he said, “It will never be goodbye.”

***

Cicero did not meet him by the coast. Tiro arrived alone, face streaked red and legs unsteady, unable to speak past the lump in his throat and the screaming in his head. Atticus rested a hand atop Tiro’s shoulder—far more than just a comfort, he felt that it was the only thing keeping him standing—and said, “It is okay.” He felt the splash of his own tears on his neck. “I understand.”

***

**32 BC**

“Father?”

Atticus opened his eyes. His daughter was standing in the doorway, a candle held tight within her hands. She knelt by his side, pushed his fringe back from his sight. “Father, your skin is so cold.”

He could not respond, but he knew now that he was ready to go. He could feel his eyes closing once more, his brain refusing to work as it should. His limbs ached—oh, they ached so much—but within his chest, his heart was the worst weight to carry of all. It had been so long since he had last seen him. It had been too long for him to bear.

He wondered whether Cicero thought of him in his final moments, too. As the blade hit his neck, did he remember not to fear the end? Did he remember how much he was loved? Did he remember Tullia's gentle laugh, Lucius' witty smile, his son's wry comebacks? Did he remember the paddle of little footsteps on the shore, the feel of Atticus' lips against his own? Did he remember when they were young? Did he remember the night they sat beneath the stars—Atticus, Tiro, Quintus, all of them—and listened as he spoke, entranced and enthralled, the moonlight reflecting from his skin? The sounds of the law court; the feel of Tullia's hair beneath his fingertips; the rare beauty of Terentia's smile; the fear of his exile; the breathless ecstasy of their first kiss; the scratch of pen and ink on parchment.

Did he remember it all?


End file.
